


Along came Mr. Beck

by ru17



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Confinement, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Forced Daddy Kink, Innocent Peter Parker, Kidnapping, M/M, Manipulation, Pining, Protective Tony Stark, Road Trips, Statutory Rape, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2020-06-28 14:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19814059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ru17/pseuds/ru17
Summary: Peter had barely come to terms with his budding sexuality, his overprotective yet suddenly-emotionally-distant father, and the steadily increasing loneliness that came with being the son of Tony Stark, when along came Mr. Beck.From the moment they met, Mr. Beck seemed too good to be true.Peter didn't know how right he was about that.





	1. Along came Mr. Beck

**Author's Note:**

> **BEFORE YOU HOP IN:**
> 
> Please read those tags. And then read them again. And then read them a third time, and focus primarily on the "Dead Dove: Do Not Eat" one. This is a story about a teenage boy becoming infatuated with his adult teacher and said teacher taking advantage of that infatuation for his own selfish reasons. It focuses on a very unhealthy relationship, framed as a romantic one due to the age and inexperience of the POV character, and contains some explicit sexual content. **If you continue reading this fic despite not wanting to consume the above stated content, you have only yourself to blame.** Angry comments will be immediately deleted and never thought of again.
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER:** If you yourself are a young, underage person who has clicked on this story when you shouldn't have, please note: **This is not a romantic story.** If an adult ever, _ever_ tries to engage with you romantically or sexually the way the character in this story does, **run.** Be cautious of the signs of grooming and talk to an adult you can trust if you think someone is engaging with you inappropriately, especially online. Be safe out there, kids.

Peter never really gave sex much thought.

He didn’t necessarily think he was abnormal, it was just - he wasn’t like some of the other boys in his class, who started talking about girls and boobs and blowjobs by grade six. He didn’t really see the appeal, but didn’t know what that said about him, if it said anything at all.

He wasn’t desperate for a label to stick to his fragilely-formed identity. He was just a regular kid, who liked video games and pizza and the new tech his dad designed, who wanted to grow up to work in biochemical engineering. Or maybe to be a ballet dancer. He hadn’t decided yet.

But something changed when he turned fifteen.

Peter never really gave sex much thought - any kind of sex. While other boys bragged, his thoughts were always somewhere else, no interest in taking part in any side of the discussion. And then the thing in the locker room happened.

It was a random fall day in third-period gym class. Nothing unusual about it at all. Everyone was showering and getting dressed for their next class, and then Brad Davis accidentally tripped into him, wearing nothing but a loose towel around his waist, still wet from his shower. His chest was smooth and toned, so much larger and more muscular than Peter’s own, and he bracketed Peter against the lockers to brace himself from his fall, trapping him with his almost-entirely-naked body.

Peter didn’t really... _get_ what he felt in that moment, because he never really gave sex much thought. But then Brad smiled at him and apologized and pulled away, and Peter realized, startled and humiliated, that he was mind-numbingly hard in his pants.

Everything was different, after that. Sex went from being a thing of little interest that everyone _else_ talked about to being the only thing on Peter’s mind. And it wasn’t even really... _sex,_ at first. It was just bodies. And sometimes the smiles of his classmates, or the sounds of their voices on the rare occasions when they would speak to him directly. Peter knew about puberty and late-bloomers. He didn’t think he was abnormal.

Except that he was only thinking about his male classmates.

And that was...look, it was _fine,_ he wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed or anything, it was just - he knew there was a word for it, and suddenly, out of nowhere, that word applied to him. It was jarring, because Peter had gone his entire life without labels, and that had been working just fine. And now one was going to be applied to him whether he liked it or not.

And there was nothing wrong with that, he _knew_ that, it was just - how much time did he have before people had to know? Was he supposed to announce it? Was he supposed to...develop a crush on one of his classmates, pray they felt the same way, and then let everybody figure it out when they started dating?

How was he supposed to tell his dad?

He knew his dad wouldn’t, like, _care,_ or anything, it was just - it was awkward, was all. He didn’t really want to be like, “Hey, Dad, a while back one of my classmates accidentally-sorta pinned me to a wall in the locker room while he was naked, and now I can’t stop thinking about dicks and I’m hard, like, seventy-percent of the time.”

Maybe he didn’t need to say any of that, but...it was such a private thing. And he trusted his dad, more than anyone - he loved him with all his heart, he could tell him anything, he was Peter’s favorite person in the whole wide world, _but_ \- he was Tony Stark. Tony, multibillionaire, head-of-the-largest-tech-company-in-the-world, genius, philanthropist, richest-man-in-new-york Stark. He knew his dad wasn’t homophobic, but...what if it embarrassed him? Or worse, _disappointed_ him?

So he didn’t know how to tell anyone, least of all his dad. He didn’t even know if he _should_ tell anyone, let alone how. So he didn’t. He just kept it to himself and tried to be discreet about what he was feeling, and nobody figured out his shameless little secret.

And then along came Mr. Beck.

Mr. Hapgood had retired last year, and for the first half of Peter’s sophomore year, their Robotics Lab teacher had been replaced by a series of substitutes. But one fateful Monday morning in March, Peter walked into his final-period Robotics Lab class and saw the classroom had...changed.

It was suddenly _organized,_ and better lit, and the motivational posters on the walls had all been replaced with helpful graphs and programming cheat-sheets. The teacher’s desk at the front was clean and neat, practically bare with only a few essentials, and a name plate resting in the corner that read, _Mr. Beck._ There was a stack of white documents sitting beside it, in front of an empty chair, where a bright red jacket was draped over the back of it, no teacher to be seen.

His classmates started speculating about what was happening immediately, but Peter put two and two together and realized, with some detachment, that their new teacher must have finally been hired.

He made his way to his seat in the back and listened to the rest of his class play guessing games about what their new teacher would be like as he removed his latest project from his backpack. He was elbows deep inside the not-so-miniature arc reactor he’d built when the class’s excited voices suddenly lowered to conspiratorial whispers. Peter looked up, and felt his mouth pop open in a silent gasp at the sight of the man descending the stairs.

He was tall, and muscular, with bright blue eyes and somewhat-longish brown hair that he had messily swept out of his face. The sleeves of his button-up shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and he grinned excitedly at the class as he made it to the bottom of the stairs, his white teeth dazzling through his neatly-trimmed beard.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” he greeted in a deep but gentle voice, the kind that made shivers run down Peter’s spine. He couldn’t take his eyes off him as he stopped in front of the rows of lab tables and addressed the class. “I’m Mr. Beck, and I’ll be your new Robotics Lab instructor from here on out.”

Peter couldn’t help but notice the girls in his class smiling at each other and whispering, secretively. Even some of the boys looked impressed - Flash’s mouth hung open even longer than Peter’s did. There was no tactful way to say it; Mr. Beck was drop-dead hot as _hell._

He began introducing himself, explaining the courseload a little bit as he did so, and his startling blue eyes scanned the rows of students as he talked, front to back, until the very last row, where they landed on Peter. Peter felt like his stomach was erupting like a volcano - Mr. Beck’s eyes stopped moving when they landed on him, and they stared at each other, the same dazzling smile gracing the man’s face and refusing to leave.

Peter hunched over his table, feeling light-headed. God. These days it felt like he could get hard for literally no logical reason, but this - this was just ridiculous. There was no sense behind how just being _looked at_ by somebody felt as good as it did when Mr. Beck stared at him.

“I have a syllabus here for each of you,” Mr. Beck said, grabbing the stack of documents from his desk and walking down the aisle between the rows of tables to hand them out. “It outlines what the rest of this semester is going to look like. If you look at the top of the first page, you’ll find my email and cellphone number. Please don’t write it on any bathroom walls - I’m trusting you guys to use it for emergency, potentially-class-failing situations only. Got it?”

There was a ripple of glee throughout the girls in class as they all pointed at the number excitedly. Peter couldn’t take his eyes off Mr. Beck, who was still walking down the aisle, towards the back where he sat, still a few syllabuses left to hand out.

He couldn’t help but notice that the man didn’t...really take his eyes off Peter the entire time he handed them out. Well, he _did,_ but - but not for long. Whenever he would look away for a moment, his gaze would always dart back to Peter, almost as quickly as it had gone, and linger, with a deep intensity that made Peter’s feet bounce against the bottom rung of his stool.

When there was only one syllabus left in Mr. Beck’s hands, he stopped beside Peter’s table, and gently laid it beside his fidgety hands with a warm, sincere smile on his face. “Now this is something.”

It took Peter’s mouth a minute to catch up with his ears. He tore his gaze away from Mr. Beck’s thick forearms and up at his face as he intelligibly answered, “Huh?”

“Your project,” Mr. Beck clarified. He placed his hands flat on the tabletop and leaned down further to inspect the arc reactor. Peter’s eyes zeroed in on the way his shirt pulled open slightly at the collar, revealing the slightest sliver of chest. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “A renewable energy reactor - I’m assuming the power source for your final project?”

“Um.” Peter’s face felt burning hot. Everyone in class was looking their way, though most of their gazes were on Mr. Beck. “Yes, sir.”

“Very impressive,” the man said, smiling kindly. “What’s your name, kid?”

If possible, Peter went even redder as the words of praise rolled over him. He forced himself to keep looking up at Mr. Beck despite the dark blush on his cheeks and said, “It’s, I’m, uh, Peter, sir.”

“Peter.” His name fell from Mr. Beck’s lips like a prayer. Peter had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from shivering. “I look forward to seeing more from you.”

Peter mumbled an embarrassed, flattered thanks as he watched Mr. Beck head back to the front of the class to begin the lesson.

—

The excited, bubbly feeling in his stomach didn’t go away for the rest of the day. Peter couldn’t explain why he was so...happy, about Mr. Beck being his new teacher, but he was. The man was brilliant and charming and funny, and kind of an asshole, but in that really likeable, endearing way that sort of reminded Peter of his dad. He was also incredibly kind. He never made snide or rude comments when someone asked a question - the opposite, actually - whenever someone didn’t understand something, Mr. Beck’s blue eyes lit up like a little kid on Christmas as he explained the answer. It was...Peter didn’t know what it was. It made him feel warm inside, for some reason.

Needless to say, by the time he got home Peter was in exceptionally high spirits. He hoped his dad was home and not still stuck at work - he wanted to tell _somebody_ about how cool Mr. Beck was, even if he was a little worried his dad would see how...enthralled, Peter was with him.

“Dad?” Peter called as he stepped off the elevator into the penthouse. “You home?”

He heard talking from somewhere off to the left, then a loud, somewhat distracted call of, “Yeah, Pete, in here!” from his dad had him heading through the archway into the kitchen. Tony sat at the island counter, working on his holographic tablet while talking avidly into his earpiece. “I don’t see why we can’t do it this Sunday. You said Sunday would be fine. Do you remember telling me Sunday would be fine? Oh, ha-ha, very funny. Keep that attitude up, smartass.”

Peter grabbed an apple from the basket on the counter and slouched over it across from his dad, waiting for him to be done his conversation. _He must be talking to Uncle Rhodey,_ he thought as he took a bite. There were very few people his dad actually liked enough to joke around with them like that. “Fine. Next Thursday it is. But you better not cancel on me again, Rogers.”

Oh. So not Uncle Rhodey, then. Peter watched a fond smile spread across his dad’s face, before the man said a quick goodbye and pressed the disconnect button on his earpiece. Tony looked up at Peter through the holographic screen of his tablet briefly, and then his tone abruptly changed as he said, “I have a bone to pick with you, young man.”

Peter frowned. He didn’t know what he could have done to earn a scolding since this morning. “Uh, okay, what’s up?”

His dad glanced at him again, still typing away, then reached into his pocket with one hand while the other continued working and pulled out a thin, black cellphone. He placed the phone on the counter before sliding it over to Peter, an unimpressed look on his face. “Did you forget something this morning?”

Peter glanced at the phone, then up at his dad, sheepishly. “Oh, right,” he said lamely. He plugged it in to charge it last night, since he hadn’t in over a week, and completely forgot about it this morning. He didn’t really have...a reason to carry it, besides his dad being able to check up on him. It wasn’t like he had friends to text him, and if any of his classmates needed him outside of school for some reason, they had his school email address.

He had trouble remembering he even _had_ a cellphone, most of the time. But he knew his dad liked it when he kept it on him, so he grabbed the phone and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans while giving his dad an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean t- ”

“Peter,” Tony sighed, pausing his hands running over the keyboard briefly. “I’ve told you _so many times_ not to forget your phone. It’s a serious thing, kiddo. You know how important it is that you have one in case of an emergency - ”

“Yeah, Dad, I kn- ”

“We’re not regular people, Pete,” he cut him off, sternly. “There are a lot of people out there who wouldn’t think _twice_ about using you to get to me or my money. You need to carry your cellphone with you _at all times,_ and that’s that. If you slip up again, I’m assigning Happy to you full-time, whether you like it or not.”

“But, Dad, I - ”

“ _No buts._ Am I clear, Peter?”

Peter’s shoulders dropped in defeat. He looked down at the swirls in the marble countertop defeatedly and nodded, his eyes downcast. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Tony said, in a lighter tone. Peter could hear the small smile take over his face as he then asked, “So, how was school today?”

The excitement from earlier came rushing back in with a vengeance. Peter grinned and looked back up, but Tony was already back to work, his eyes glued to his tablet’s screen as his fingers flew over the keys furiously. “It was - it was really great, Dad, we uh, we got a new Robotics Lab teacher, and he’s _so cool,_ he’s really smart and funny and he seemed really interested in my project for fina - ”

An incessant beeping started blaring through the room, and Tony held up a hand to Peter to quiet him without so much as a glance. “Hold that thought, kiddo, this is work.” He pressed the button on his earpiece still without looking away from his screen. “Yeah? Oh, hey. No, I have a minute, just working on some stuff. What do you need?”

And then he was gone.

Peter sighed and straightened up before heading for his bedroom. He’d never say it out loud - mostly because he hated being rude - but one of the reasons he didn’t make more of an effort to use his phone like his dad wanted was because, if he was being truly honest, the last thing he wanted was to become one of those people who didn’t know how to put it down.


	2. His red jacket

Robotics Lab went from Peter’s third favorite class to his most favorite class in exactly three days.

It wasn’t - okay, it was _sort of_ because of how hot Mr. Beck was and how nice it was just to, like, see him every day and stuff - but it wasn’t _just_ that. It wasn’t even mostly that. Peter enjoyed looking at him, sure (and didn’t _that_ just make him feel like the biggest creep on the planet) but with each class that he had with Mr. Beck, Peter quickly realized that he...really, really liked him.

He was a good teacher. He was the best teacher, actually, if Peter was being honest. He was so...attentive, and invested in what the class was doing and making sure they knew how to do it. Peter had never seen some of the not-quite-so-gifted kids in his class pick up and master new material so fast. Mr. Beck was like a wizard, using his powers to spread knowledge to the children of the world. Like some kind of...science-distributing Santa Claus.

Except hot.

Really, really hot.

And...okay, maybe that wasn’t totally it, either. Maybe it also had something to do with how...considerate, Mr. Beck was, if that made any sense. Of everyone, sure, but especially of Peter.

Mr. Beck paid a lot of attention to him. Not like...a weird amount, or anything, but. A lot. He would sit with his students as they worked and talk with them, get to know them and the projects they were working on, figure out what it was they were hoping to get from his class, normal teacher stuff. But he’d sit with Peter the longest. Not so much that anyone except Peter would even notice, but...Peter noticed. How could he _not?_

The extra five or so minutes Mr. Beck would spend at Peter’s table with him made him feel...he didn’t even know the word for it. Special, maybe. Worthwhile. Valid. Important. It made him feel like...like Mr. Beck _liked_ him, and that wasn’t totally unusual - Peter was a good student who did his work and didn’t cause trouble, so most of his teachers liked him - but Mr. Beck liking him felt. Personal. Warm. Like Peter wasn’t just a student who did what he was told and was therefore favorable, but an actual...human being. It felt like Mr. Beck liked _him,_ and that was…

That was awesome.

They would talk, a little, as Peter worked on his project and Mr. Beck offered advice and feedback. They liked a lot of the same movies, which was cool. Mr. Beck was actually kind of a geek, Peter learned, and that only made the volcanoy feeling in his stomach erupt even more. He didn’t know why. Teachers sometimes felt like...well, not like _robots,_ but - different, from the other adults Peter knew. A class all of their own. But Mr. Beck felt like a _guy,_ who just so happened to be their teacher. He was really easy to talk to, and Peter liked that.

He liked everything about Mr. Beck, really. He liked how organized and clean he was, how funny he was, how he’d make a joke at someone’s expense but follow it with a really genuine, heartfelt compliment that left that person smiling _as well_ as laughing. He liked that he was a little laidback when it came to, like, teachery rules and stuff, but more invested and dedicated to his students than most other teachers seemed to be. He liked the way he always wore his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his forearms and the silver watch on his right wrist. He liked the way his red jacket hugged his broad chest and thick biceps, but still fit him like a second skin. He liked his sky-blue eyes and the deep, intimate timber of his voice. He liked…

Oh, crap.

Peter put his head down on his desk, hiding his face shamefully from the world.

He liked _him._

—

“Hey, Penis!”

Peter resolutely lowered his head and began walking faster, pretending he couldn’t hear Flash and his gang behind him. If he made it to the bus before they reached him, he could avoid a confrontation, and he _had_ to avoid a confrontation. Dad would never let him get to and from school by himself without Happy bodyguarding him if he found out about Flash being a dick to him all the time.

“I know you can hear us!”

Peter kept one foot in front of the other, refusing to respond or turn around. He just had to make it to the bus stop. He couldn’t tell Flash to screw off, no matter how satisfying it would be. He couldn’t instigate anything. It wasn’t worth the risk.

“Stop fucking ignoring me!”

Peter gasped as a hand suddenly gripped his bicep hard, tugging him back and forcing him to face Flash’s affronted expression. He shrugged his arm forcefully out of the other boy’s hold and backed away, putting as much distance between them as possible.

“Leave me _alone,_ Flash. I’m not in the mood for your crap right now.”

“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?” Flash taunted, stepping right back into his space. He glanced briefly at Flash’s friends to make sure they weren’t moving to surround him, and then continued backing away, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Come on, Penis. Let’s see what you’ve got, since you think you’re such a big hotshot. You wanna put your daddy’s money where your mouth is?”

Peter bristled, offended. “I never said I was - ”

Flash cut him off with a harsh shove, grinning at him as he fell to the sidewalk. Peter landed _hard_ on his backpack, a horrible and terrifying _snap_ sound reaching his ears as the contents inside it were crunched under his body. He gasped and sat up, trying to jostle his backpack off to see what broke inside, but Flash grabbed him by the front of his hoodie and yanked him up, only to shove him again, into the wall this time.

“Flash, _stop,_ I think my - ”

“You think you’re better than everyone else,” Flash finished for him, seething now. “Spoiled little rich boy with perfect grades. The whole school’s teacher’s pet. You fucking wonder why nobody likes you, Penis? You think you’re too good for everybody around you, when the truth is you aren’t _shit_ without your dad.”

Flash ended his little speech by kicking Peter hard in the thigh. He was probably aiming for his crotch, and Peter was thrilled he missed, but his leg seized up from the impact and he crumpled to the ground again, covering his face with his arms as Flash kicked out again, hitting him in the shoulder, this time. “Flash! _Stop!”_

“Make me,” Flash demanded, continuing his assault. “C’mon, you pussy, get up and fucking _make me_ \- ”

“What’s going on here?”

A loud, familiar voice startled the group of them, and Peter looked up through his arms and saw Mr. Beck standing there, a hard look on his handsome face. He stormed forward and Flash’s friends scattered like rats, leaving Flash to back away shamefully, which, well. Peter wouldn’t say it was _awesome_ to see Flash change his tune so quickly, but it was the tiniest bit satisfying.

“Flash.” Mr. Beck stopped his advance only a few feet away, his bright blue eyes narrowed into darkened slits as he towered over the both of them. “You’re aware of the absolute _zero_ tolerance policy for bullying and harassment this school has, aren’t you?”

Flash stammered brokenly, his fear palpable in the air. Peter gazed up at Mr. Beck, a little...surprised, by how different he looked when he was mad. “I don’t like bullies, Flash. And just like this school, I have a zero tolerance policy. I am _never_ going to catch you behaving this way again. Am I?”

“N-no,” Flash stammered, shaking his head. “No - no, sir.”

“Good.” Mr. Beck jerked his head in a firm nod down the road and said, “Go home. Now.”

Flash didn’t need to be told twice. He sidled down the wall until he was no longer cowering in Mr. Beck’s shadow, then booked it down the street, until he turned the corner, disappearing from sight. Peter watched him go, then looked up at Mr. Beck, startled to see the man already gazing down at him.

“You all right, kid?” he asked, reaching out a hand to help Peter up. Peter accepted it, a weird, totally inappropriate, could-not-be-worse-timing _thump_ beating in his heart when his hand all but disappeared inside Mr. Beck’s much-larger palm. The man’s long fingers wrapped gently around his hand and slowly helped him up, and Peter hardly noticed the deep throb in his leg when Mr. Beck steadied him, two large hands easily cupping his thin shoulders.

“This isn’t the first time this has happened, is it?” Mr. Beck asked. His voice was quiet and gentle; his angry expression had melted away into a look of concern as he glanced Peter over. “Are you hurt?”

“Um.” Peter tried to get control of how weirdly hot his face felt, but it was a losing battle. “I’m, um, I’m okay, Mr. Beck. Uh - th-thanks, you know, for intervening and stuff, I really appreciate it.”

“Jeez, kid, how could I not?” Mr. Beck asked, the angry person from moments before totally gone. Concern skewed his normally light-hearted tone, but the deep rumble of his voice still made Peter’s bones feel like jelly. “Wouldn’t be much of an instructor if I stood by and let my favorite student get the crap kicked out of him, would I?”

Peter felt the heat in his cheeks spread humiliatingly low in his body.

_Favorite student???_

Before Peter could open his mouth and stammer out something undoubtedly horrifying and embarrassing, Mr. Beck squeezed his shoulders and asked, “Do you want me to give you a ride home?”

Oh, God. If he had to sit beside Mr. Beck right now for any amount of time, his body would literally explode from nerves and hormones. He shook his head frantically, gave the man an attempt at a polite smile (which he was pretty sure looked more like a grimace) and gripped the straps of his backpack as he leaned out of Mr. Beck’s grip slightly. “That’s - that’s so generous, Mr. Beck, really, and I uh - I’m super grateful for the offer but, I’m okay, I usually just catch the bus and then the subway, so it’s fine, I - _ah!”_

Peter tried to take a step away, but his injured leg throbbed excruciatingly when he put his weight on it, and he stumbled with a hiss of pain, almost falling back down to the ground. But Mr. Beck reached out with the reflexes of a superhero and steadied him, giving a surprised, “Whoa, kid,” before wrapping his arm snuggly around Peter’s waist and maneuvering Peter’s around his neck. “Okay, yep, that seals it. One ride home, coming right up.”

“It’s - it’s okay, sir, really - you - you don’t have to, um - ”

“ _Peter,_ ” Mr. Beck admonished, even though he was smiling. “Kid, _please_ don’t make me haul you over my shoulder and carry you to my car. It’ll just look like I’m kidnapping you to anyone who doesn’t know you’re my student.”

If possible, Peter’s face burned even redder and hotter than it already was. He didn’t trust his voice to speak, so he gave a curt nod and let Mr. Beck limp him back to his car, grateful that almost everybody had already gone home and there was hardly anyone around to see them.

He didn’t even _know_ how to process Mr. Beck helping him into his car and buckling him in. It felt like all his senses had been dialled to eleven. He was suddenly intimately hyperaware of every nerve ending in his body, and of every brush of Mr. Beck’s big hands on his chest and hip as he fixed the seatbelt. Peter couldn’t even fathom opening his mouth to speak right now - his nerves were already wreaking havoc, making his feet bounce anxiously against the floor of the car and his hands twitch, sending nervous shivers up his arms as he fidgeted, restlessly.

Mr. Beck glanced him over again, worriedly asked, “Are you cold?” then - to Peter’s dazed bewilderment - started shrugging off his red jacket, before gently wrapping it around his chest, like he was tucking him in for bed. “Here, you can wear this until we get to your apartment.”

“Th-thank you, Mr. Beck,” Peter stuttered out helplessly. He felt frozen by his own horrible, hormonal reaction to the material of the man’s jacket blanketing him snuggly against the car seat. Mr. Beck smiled at him, then made his way around to the driver’s seat, and before Peter knew it, his teacher was driving him home.

Peter couldn’t help but look around the interior of the car as they drove. It was the only thing to even remotely distract him from the man sitting only a few inches away, or how good Mr. Beck’s jacket smelled against his chest. There was a whiff of cologne clinging to the fabric, but not the indistinguishable, absurdly expensive kind his dad wore - Mr. Beck’s cologne smelled...outdoorsy and masculine. Simple, but uncomfortably pleasant.

So Peter stubbornly dragged his gaze over the inside of the car, desperate to avoid an…unfortunate consequence to how totally awesome this whole thing was. His leg throbbed like a _bitch,_ but Mr. Beck was making idle chat in that pleasant, warm voice of his, and he was close enough that Peter would hardly have to move at all to rest his head on his shoulder, and his jacket was so soft and comfortable wrapped around his body that it made his nervous fidgeting stop, and it smelled so good that liquid fire pulsed through his bloodstream.

It didn’t surprise him how clean the inside of Mr. Beck’s car was. It was spotless, just like his desk at school - the only thing that was even in the front of the car was a handful of change and ones in the passenger-side cupholder. Mr. Beck looked across at him and saw Peter gazing at the stash curiously, and he smiled. “Morning coffee fund,” he said. “Whenever I buy anything with cash, I just dump the change in there, then use it for coffee on my way to work in the mornings.”

“That’s smart,” Peter said, feeling stupid for not having more to add. “Do, um, do your friends ever joke about you driving a buick?”

“No?” Mr. Beck said with a grin, raising an eyebrow at him curiously. “Why, you some sort of car snob, Pete?”

“No!” Peter said quickly, his cheeks heating up. “No, I - I meant, um, like, the pun. Do they ever make the ‘Mr. Beck drives a bu-eck’ joke?”

Mr. Beck didn’t say anything for the longest five seconds of Peter’s life. Then, as the car stopped at a red light, he slowly turned his head to look at him with the most unimpressed expression Peter had ever seen on someone’s face. He couldn’t help it - he burst into laughter, having to smother his face in the jacket draped across him to make it stop. Mr. Beck groaned quietly under his breath, then chuckled, a buttery-smooth, rich sound that rolled over Peter in a wave of heat.

“I should make you limp the rest of the way home for that,” Mr. Beck joked, a handsome smirk on his face. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Pete.”

Peter’s brain skipped a beat like a scratched CD. It took him a minute to process what just came out of Mr. Beck’s mouth, and once he did, he felt every inch of his skin burn as brightly red as Mr. Beck’s jacket, until he was sure he blended into it like a chameleon. The car rolled to a stop, and Mr. Beck turned and looked at him, smiling when their eyes met across the center console.

“Peter,” he said softly.

It felt like there was a bowling ball in his throat, but Peter swallowed it anyway. “Y-yes, sir?”

Mr. Beck’s smile widened, and then he nodded out of the windshield without breaking eye contact. “We’re here.”

Peter blinked at him, still reeling from the man’s words bouncing around the inside of his head like a screensaver logo, before he finally caught on to what he said and glanced out the window. He stared up at the tower, wondering how Mr. Beck knew to bring him here - until he realized. Of course he knew who Peter’s dad was, and therefore where he lived. It was called _Stark_ Tower, after all.

“Oh, uhm…” Peter came back to his senses and carefully pulled Mr. Beck’s jacket off, before folding it in half and handing it over to the man, somewhat reluctantly. “Um, seriously, Mr. Beck, thank you so much for the ride. I really can’t thank you enough.”

“It was no trouble, kid,” Mr. Beck smiled at him. “Make sure you ice that leg when you get inside, all right?”

Peter’s face was unbearably, pleasantly warm. “Yes, sir.”

The look Mr. Beck gave him as Peter opened the door and slid out of the car was downright... _fond._ “See you tomorrow, Peter.”

Peter returned his smile through the permanent blush his face now had. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Beck.”


	3. It's a date

The first thing Peter noticed when he stepped into the penthouse was that his dad was nowhere to be found. The mild flare of disappointment he felt was quickly overtaken with relief; his leg was throbbing like there was a wrestling match going on inside it, and he dreaded the thought of trying to hide his limp from his dad’s eagle-eyed gaze.

He carried himself to his bedroom and flopped gracelessly onto his bed. His injuries hurt, but his heart was still booming like a gong in his chest.

Mr. Beck had... _flirted_ with him, kind of. Or at least, it felt like he had. Any other teacher would have sent both Flash _and_ Peter to the principal’s office for “fighting” like that, but Mr. Beck had kicked Flash to the curb and didn’t even scold Peter for failing to defend himself.

And then he said Peter was his favorite student.

Peter buried his face into his pillow. It was embarrassing how good Mr. Beck’s attention felt. He wasn’t stupid, he knew nothing could ever...like, _happen_ between them, but still. It felt...exciting, thinking about the way Mr. Beck had looked at him in the car, how his big, warm hands felt as they buckled Peter into his seat.

He glanced at his bedroom door to make sure it was closed before shucking off his jeans. There was already the oval outline of a bruise forming on his thigh, vaguely in the shape of Flash’s heel, but Peter was more focused on the pleasant discomfort between his legs. He kept his boxers on as he pushed his hand inside them and wrapped it around his dick; he liked the way the soft material felt rubbing back and forth over the tip.

A dull, faraway shame filled him as he pictured Mr. Beck the first day they met, descending down the stairs into the lab with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He pictured the deep, warm timber of his voice as he said Peter’s name, or told him how smart he was, or praised him for the work he’d done on his project. He thought about how small his arc reactor looked when Mr. Beck held it in his big hands, how his ass looked hugged by his dark jeans.

Peter rolled onto his side and snapped his mouth shut to cover his moans. Mr. Beck was so unfairly _hot._ It drove him crazy, sitting there in his class every afternoon, too aroused to even concentrate on his schoolwork. He thought about the feeling of Mr. Beck’s arm around his waist as he helped him to the car, of the way his jacket smelled draped over Peter’s chest. The way he looked at him when they arrived at the tower.

He thought about Mr. Beck leaning in to kiss him. Slowly, at first, just a little kiss. He would know it was Peter’s first time, so he wouldn’t go too fast. Just a small kiss to tell Peter how much he liked him. Then he’d cup the back of Peter’s neck and pull away, and chuckle breathlessly against his lips, and tell him, “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I saw you.”

Peter would be the one to lean in again, kissing deeper this time, and Mr. Beck would moan at how bold he was, pull him in closer. It would feel so good. Mr. Beck would know how to kiss and wouldn’t care that Peter didn’t. He’d lead the pace, keeping it light and affectionate. It would be the perfect first time.

The long, high-pitched moan that erupted from Peter’s mouth was muffled by his bed. He shuddered as he came, the weightless feeling of cresting over that edge spreading through his whole body. He let all of his muscles go lax as he panted into his pillow, curled up on his side as if in pain. But he didn’t feel anything except satisfaction, even as the throbbing in his thigh slowly started to creep back in. Peter couldn’t wipe the sappy smile from his face.

It was dumb, liking a guy who was so much older - and his teacher - as much as he did. But it was also pretty harmless. Mr. Beck didn’t have a wedding ring on his finger, but there was no way he could be single. He must’ve at least had a girlfriend. But it wasn’t like Peter having a crush on him was hurting anything, right? Nobody would ever even know about it.

As Peter sat up to change, a rod of pain stabbed all the way from his back into his brain. He gasped and clenched his teeth, then remembered how Flash had pushed him down, onto his backpack, and the loud crunch as he landed on...

Peter jolted forward and pulled his bag onto the bed, yanking it open. His stomach turned to ice when he saw his arc reactor, cracked through the middle and broken at the docking port where he was planning to assemble the rest of his robot. He lifted the device up and inspected it. It wasn’t something that could be fixed. He’d have to start again, and that meant he’d be behind the rest of his class and off track to finish the whole thing.

Frustration and anxiety whirled in his gut. He didn’t want Mr. Beck to think he was falling behind in his class. Maybe if he pulled a few all-nighters, he could be back to where he was by Monday...

Or maybe his dad could help.

Ignoring the ache in his back and thigh, Peter quickly cleaned himself up and shuffled out of the room to do another walk-through of the penthouse. There was still no sign of his dad, it didn’t look like he’d been there all day. He fished his cellphone from his backpack and called his dad’s. There was no answer.

He knew his dad was busy. But this was important, and it would be so much easier rebuilding the reactor with his help. Or maybe he’d even know if there was some way it could be salvaged, though Peter doubted it. He’d need to do more than fashion a new case to restore its energy source.

Desperate, Peter gritted his teeth to hide his pain and hopped into the elevator to ride down to R&D. It was a long shot that his dad would be in one of the communal labs instead of his private one upstairs, but maybe he was still working. It was the best bet Peter had.

He had to scour three of the R&D floors before he found the lab his dad was working in. His leg and back were pounding at this point, sending waves of pain up into Peter’s skull that made his face feel hot. He was more than a little irritated when he walked in and saw his dad sitting at the counter, elbows deep in hunks of machinery. He could see the outline of his cellphone resting in his back pocket, but he still hadn’t answered Peter’s call, even though it would have saved him all this limping around on his sore leg.

“Dad?” he asked, grabbing the man’s attention. “Are you gonna be down here much longer?”

“Hey Pete,” Tony said, only giving him the briefest glance before turning back to his work. “ ‘Fraid so. I’m on a roll, and I don’t wanna break concentration unless I have to. I’ll probably be here most of the night. You can order takeout for dinner, if you want.”

“I, uhm, I actually need your help with a school project. I’m supposed to have my arc reactor done by Monday, but - ”

Tony didn’t lift his gaze from the counter even as he raised a questioning eyebrow. “Your arc reactor? I thought you finished that days ago.”

“I - I did, but F...fell, I fell, and I landed on my backpack and it broke, and now I need to start all over again I think, so I just thought - ”

“Pete,” his dad sighed, still working away without looking at him. “I’m sorry, kiddo, but I’m swamped. We launch our new product line next month, and Pep’s still got her hands full handling the international side of things, so I’m stuck running the company and all new developments, _as well_ as managing eight-hundred employees. I don’t have any manpower to spare right now.”

Peter felt his chest deflate like someone crushed it. “Oh. Well... what if...could I maybe just work down here with you? In case I just, like, have a question or something? I’ll be quiet, I promise. You won’t even notice I’m here.”

“Peter,” his dad said. He might as well have just said no, for all the annoyance Peter could hear in his voice. “You know I need space when I’m working. There’s nothing wrong with working in the lab upstairs. You’re a smart kid, you’ll figure it out fine on your own. I really need you to let me get this done - ”

He abruptly stopped talking when his phone started beeping. Peter felt a stab of hurt as he pulled the phone from his back pocket and glanced at it, then answered it immediately. “Hey, Steve,” he said in a warm voice, a bright smile on his face. “No no, nothing like that. Just in the lab.” He laughed, leaning back on his stool, the machinery in front of him forgotten. “Of course not. You know I always have time for you.”

Peter clenched his jaw to try and trample down on the surging ache in his chest and turned on his heels. He didn’t hide his limp as he left the lab, but his dad didn’t notice it, anyway.

—

He was up until 5am before he finally passed out at his desk. He heard his dad come home sometime around 2, but he didn’t knock as he passed by Peter’s door in the hall. He wondered, briefly, if his dad even noticed his light was on. If he did, he didn’t say anything, not even to tell Peter to get to bed, despite being up so late on a school night.

Exhaustion and the residual pain of his injuries weighed him down throughout the day. He stumbled on his feet more than once, and two of his teachers gave him concerned looks when he entered their classrooms. He half-assed his way through gym class, refusing to put too much strain on his sore leg and not caring when Coach Wilson barked at him for it, even as the rest of the class sniggered.

He was dead on his feet by the time he got to Robotics Lab, but some of the exhaustion lifted when Mr. Beck looked up at him as he descended the stairs into the classroom. They locked eyes, and Peter felt a flare of...something pleasant when he read the emotion in the man’s gaze: relief, concern, and finally a stern promise of, _we’re going to talk about this._

Flash didn’t even glance at Peter as he walked by, which was weird, but not unwelcome. He was used to having to dodge the boy’s foot trying to trip him whenever he walked past him, but today, Flash kept his feet and hands and eyes to himself. He couldn’t help but notice the way Flash was avoiding looking at Mr. Beck even more than him, or the small inkling of satisfaction that gave him.

Peter sat at his table in the back and kept his head down, forcing himself to work on rebuilding his reactor through the entire class. He only gave Mr. Beck the odd longing glance as the man walked around handing out advice like candy. For the most part, he was laser-focused on restoring his project to its former glory, straining to keep his eyes open as he worked. He got so absorbed in it that it took him a moment to realize Mr. Beck had stopped at his table just before the end of class.

When he looked up, the man was frowning down at him. “What happened to your project?”

Peter almost lied on instinct, before he remembered Mr. Beck knew about what happened with Flash. His hands started feeling damp as he shyly mumbled, “Oh, uhh, I - I landed on it yesterday, when I fell on my backpack. When...you know.”

He glanced at Flash, making sure he was speaking quietly enough that the other boy couldn’t hear him. Mr. Beck made a disappointed noise under his breath and took a seat on the other side of the table, leaning forward so they could speak without being overheard. “Is that why you look like you’ve been up all night?”

His cheeks burned pink. He nervously fidgeted and gave a short, obedient nod. “Yeah.”

“Don’t kill yourself trying to get this done by Monday, Peter,” Mr. Beck said, all warm and honey-sweet. “I know it wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, but…” Peter looked up, met the man’s gaze, felt his cheeks redden and promptly lowered his eyes back to his reactor. “Uhm, I, I just, I don’t want to get behind, that’s all.”

Mr. Beck smiled at him, his arms crossed on the tabletop. Peter couldn’t help but stare at the bare skin of his thick forearms. He looked so strong. How did someone even bulk up their forearms like that? Peter’s looked like chopsticks in comparison. His whole body seemed infinitesimal compared to Mr. Beck’s.

“If that’s the way you feel, how about I help you work on it after class?” Mr. Beck suddenly asked. Peter’s gaze shot up to meet his in surprise.

“Really?” he squeaked.

The man’s smile widened. “Of course. I more or less get what you were going for. I can’t promise we’ll finish it, but at least we should be able to get enough done that you can sleep when you get home. How does that sound?”

“That...that sounds great, Mr. Beck,” Peter said, a little taken aback but. Glowing. His chest felt so warm. “That would be really...I, I’d really like that.”

“Good,” said Mr. Beck, tapping the top of the table with his knuckles as he stood up. “It’s a date. I’ll see you after class, Peter.”

A garbled, unintelligible stutter left Peter’s mouth as he watched the man walk away, easily, like nothing happened. There was no way he imagined it, that time. That was definitely...unusual, right? At the very least? He’d never heard a teacher make a joke like that to a student. It seemed inappropriate, but.

But the excited flutter in his stomach felt so, so good.

Peter glanced between his sweaty hands and the clock on the wall, anxiously. Ten minutes until the bell rang. He didn’t know if he’d make it before his heart gave out. The idea of Mr. Beck and him staying together after class, in an empty school, just the two of them working on a project together, side by side…

He looked up front and saw Mr. Beck watching him from his desk. The man smiled, and Peter felt heat rise to his cheeks. He grinned back, his tiredness and the ache in his sore leg and back forgotten.


	4. Their own little world

By the time the bell rang, Peter was a ball of nervous, excited energy. He was pretty sure everyone could hear his foot anxiously tapping against the bottom of his stool, but he was too wrapped up in his own anticipation to really care.

A few students lingered after class was dismissed, to his dismay. Some hung around to finish up the parts they were working on, while others were just chatting as they took their time packing up. Peter didn’t interact with anyone, just kept his head down and kept working on his project, watching avidly from the corner of his eye for the last of his classmates to leave.

Mr. Beck sat at his desk, pouring over paperwork as his students filed out. He would look up at each one as they passed him, and smile at them, and look them in the eyes as he said, “Have a good night.” Peter liked that about him. He was so...genuine. Not a lot of adults showed kids the kind of respect that Mr. Beck did.

When the last of his classmates left, Peter watched Mr. Beck gather the paperwork he’d been scrutinizing and carry it over to his table. A giddy blush crawled up his neck onto his face as Mr. Beck took the seat across from him. Something about the way he sat down was so casual. Like he was as pleased to be here as Peter was.

“Okay,” Mr. Beck began, sprawling the paperwork across the table for Peter to see. “It’s a good thing your substitute teachers had the sense to keep copies of the models you guys were drawing up for your projects. I have your first, second and third draft for your reactor here, so I was able to look them over and catch myself up to where you were. I’ll admit, this part isn’t really my area of expertise. I’m more help in the programming department.”

Peter stared at the small mountain of crumpled, messy, loose-leaf papers he’d been handing in since the start of the semester. There was no way Mr. Beck could have reviewed all of this in the last ten minutes of class, especially when it was written in Peter’s inky chicken-scratch. He’d never been more embarrassed about his handwriting than he was in that exact moment.

“Wow. Uhm, I think it’s really cool how...involved you are in everybody’s schoolwork, Mr. Beck,” Peter said shyly, his blush deepening when Mr. Beck smiled at him. “I don’t think many teachers would spend time reviewing their students’ old homework like that. That’s a lot of time to invest. I think it’s...it’s really awesome how much you care.”

“Well, I’m glad you feel that way, Peter,” Mr. Beck replied, “but I have to be honest with you. I didn’t look at everyone’s notes the way I did yours. Most of your classmates are making some pretty basic stuff - cool stuff, sure, but easy enough to figure out at a glance - except for you. I couldn’t help myself. I was pretty thrilled when I realized your substitutes kept all this stuff on file. I got to learn a lot about you.”

If possible, the warm blush on Peter’s face became even hotter, burning so hot that his head swam. Mr. Beck wanted to learn about him. Mr. Beck was  _ thrilled _ to learn about him. Nobody had ever paid that kind of attention to Peter before, besides his dad. Nobody had ever been that interested in him.

And he couldn’t remember the last time his dad really had, either.

“So,” Mr. Beck said when Peter couldn’t find the strength to speak through his embarrassment, “it looks like we need to start with a new housing unit, and then rebuild the docking port, is that about right?”

“Y- yeah,” Peter stammered. “I, uh, I started fixing the reactor last night and finished it in class, so. Next is just reprinting the 3D model for the base and casing, and then assembling the circuit board onto the docking station so I can reconnect it.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard, with the two of us working together,” the man reassured. Peter couldn’t help the small, grateful smile that spread across his face. “The finished product is going to include holotech, right? What are you planning to use to program the security functions?”

Peter gave a little shrug. Their final project needed to include a login and password feature, but he’d sort of been more focused on the application software in his design. “Uhm, probably just Oracle, or Sybase, I think. Coding isn’t really my favorite part, to be honest.”

“Hey, nothing wrong with that. The great thing about a technical school like this is everybody’s going to find something that really gets their blood pumping.” Mr. Beck’s lips quirked upward at the corner, just the barest hint of a smirk. Peter’s knees couldn’t stop bouncing, for some reason. “If I remember correctly, yours is chemistry, right?”

“It...was,” Peter answered lamely. “I’ve, um, sort of been more interested in this class lately. It’s been a lot more fun.”

“That’s a relief to hear. I’ve actually never taught a class before, so I was a little worried I’d turn everybody off the subject.”

“ _ You?” _ Peter said, too loudly, making an idiot of himself. “I - I-I mean, no, there’s no way anyone would...you’re a  _ great _ teacher, Mr. Beck. The fact that you even care enough to worry about something like that just proves how good of a teacher you are.”

A warm, fond smile crossed the man’s face and made Peter’s whole body turn to butter. He felt like he was melting under the warmth of Mr. Beck’s expression, and it made everything seem...better. Good. Everything felt  _ good. _

“You’re a very sweet boy, aren’t you?” Mr. Beck asked in a low, pleasant voice. “It’s too bad I’m only allowed to grade your schoolwork, Pete. I couldn’t speak more highly of what a kind young man you are.” He leaned back in his seat, like he was reclining in the world’s comfiest armchair and not their dingy metal lab stools. “Though, I  _ would _ have to dock you points in the ‘follows instructions’ category.”

“Huh?” Peter asked, his face dropping. When had he failed to follow Mr. Beck’s instructions? “I - did I -?”

“Well,” the man gave him a playful smirk, and some of the sudden anxiety in Peter’s chest ebbed, just a bit. “I’m fairly certain you didn’t ice that leg like I told you to last night. Did you?”

Terrible, indescribable pleasure rippled through him. He couldn’t believe Mr. Beck noticed that; that he could tell just by  _ looking _ at Peter that his leg was hurting him. It went beyond the normal realms of being considerate, Peter knew that. Mr. Beck paid special attention to him and had since the first day they met. That probably wasn’t...appropriate, really. But it felt good. It felt better than anything Peter could remember feeling. It was amazing, how much he liked Mr. Beck’s attention.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he apologized sheepishly, lowering his head. “I was going to, but - when I realized I broke my reactor, the stress of having to rebuild it became more important, so…”

“You didn’t break anything, Pete.” The light, playful tone of Mr. Beck’s voice dipped slightly, into something more serious and concerned. “I’ve been debating back and forth whether or not I should talk to the principal about what happened. I don’t think there’s room for a violent student like Flash at this school.”

“No!” Peter interjected quickly, startling them both. “Sorry, but - no, Mr. Beck, please,  _ please _ don’t tell the principal. If he finds out we were fighting or even about Flash giving me shit, he’ll tell my dad, and then I’ll never be able to step foot inside this school alone again. And that’d be the  _ best _ case scenario. Please. Please don’t tell anyone?”

Mr. Beck regarded him closely for a long, tense moment, before he relaxed his features and nodded. He gave a small sigh, but the return of a small smile on his face made the tension in Peter’s whole body ease. “I really hate the idea of him getting away with treating you like that,” he said. “But I understand. If that’s what you want, your secret’s safe with me, kid. After all, class wouldn’t be half as much fun if my favorite student suddenly got homeschooled.”

Peter almost dropped the part he’d been holding onto the floor.

There it was again.  _ Favorite student. _ Mr. Beck hadn’t even been here a week, and already he  _ favored _ Peter over all his other students. And, well. Peter favored  _ him _ over all his other teachers, but that was...not entirely appropriate. It was for pretty not-school-related reasons that Mr. Beck and his class had become Peter’s favorites over the last five days. At least, Peter was pretty sure Mr. Beck didn’t go home and think about Peter as he crawled into bed.

Oh,  _ shit. _ Why the hell did he have to think about that  _ now?? _ His face felt sunburnt from how red and hot it quickly became. Mr. Beck smiled at him, like he  _ knew, _ and that only made the blush worsen. Fuck. Fuck fuck  _ fuck. Not now, dick, _ he thought desperately, trying not-so-subtly to cross his legs.  _ Please not now, I’m begging you, not now. _

He was well on his way to a panic attack when Mr. Beck stood and walked the length of the lab back to his desk. He opened one of the tall cabinets behind it, and Peter could barely make out the top of a mini fridge nestled under the shelf inside. He wondered if that was Mr. Beck’s doing. It wouldn’t surprise him - the man had personalized almost every other corner of the lab. And he doubted Mr. Hapgood or any of the other dozen or so substitutes they’d had had cared enough about their environment to make those kinds of changes. Only Mr. Beck cared about things like that.

The man retrieved a small blue icepack from inside, and smiled at Peter as he brought it over. A loud, horrifying thought of,  _ oh god, he  _ knows,  _ he’s about to call me out for being so totally disgusting,  _ rang in his head, but it was quickly overshadowed by an even more terrifying thought of,  _ no, he has no idea at all, and he’s going to walk around the table and try and put that icepack on my leg and see that I’m hard and  _ then  _ call me disgusting - _

But Mr. Beck didn’t go around the table. He gave Peter another playful, reassuring smile, handed over the icepack, and if he  _ did _ notice the way Peter’s jeans were suddenly a size too tight, he didn’t so much as cast a glance to show it.

Peter gratefully took the icepack from him and gently placed it on his thigh. The sudden cold helped with a lot more than his leg pain. Mr. Beck took his seat again and resumed where they left off on assembling the new housing unit, then said, without looking up, “You should wrap that in your hoodie so there’s an extra layer of protection between the icepack and your skin. Don’t want to give yourself a burn.” Peter was about to say it was okay, that the denim was actually thick enough to protect his skin, but Mr. Beck looked up and smirked and added, “Or at least, it’ll keep your jeans from getting damp. You can wear my jacket if it’s too cold for you down here.”

Peter didn’t think he’d ever be able to feel cold around Mr. Beck, but he really,  _ really _ wanted to wear his jacket again. He nodded dumbly, blushing when Mr. Beck once again stood up to retrieve it from his desk.

“Sorry,” he mumbled when Mr. Beck handed it to him. He eagerly threaded his arms through the sleeves, loving how big it felt on his body. Like being wrapped in a blanket. It was comforting, and the subtle, warm scent of Mr. Beck’s cologne hit him and made him feel weirdly giggly. He was such a mess. “Thanks, Mr. Beck. The ice does feel better.”

“It’s the least I could do. But listen, kid. I may not be able to get Flash kicked out, but I  _ can _ make him leave you alone. I want you to tell me if he gives you anymore trouble, okay? Nobody deserves to be attacked like that, but especially not you. Do you promise?”

Peter couldn’t help it. He didn’t mean to. He opened his mouth to say yes, he promises, he’ll tell him the next time Flash is an asshole, but what came out was, “Why especially not me?”

Mr. Beck pinned him with his piercing blue eyes. Peter felt a shiver run down the base of his skull into his feet. He’d never been looked at like that before. It was...intense. Like, really,  _ really _ intense. Like being stared at by a lion within arm’s reach, surrounded by miles and miles of featureless desert. Something about it was so...mature. Adult. Terrifying, but totally, completely awesome.

Finally the intense gaze subsided, and the fond, affectionate smile that replaced it made that warm glow return to Peter’s chest full force. He expected Mr. Beck to give him the usual teacher spiel, the one he’d occasionally gotten from school counsellors over the years, which usually went something like,  _ you’re a good kid, you show up, you do your work, you don’t cause trouble, the other kids shouldn’t treat you like that.  _ The one that basically came down to, “You don’t cause us any trouble, so we don’t enjoy seeing you get bullied, even if we won’t necessarily do anything to prevent it.” He’d been hearing that one over and over since he was seven years old.

But Mr. Beck smiled at him like Peter was the only other person in the entire world and said, “Because I care about you, and knowing someone is mistreating you breaks my heart. And makes me angry. I don’t like it when someone hurts the people I care about, Peter.”

Mr. Beck might as well have said that whole sentence in Chinese for how long it took Peter to make sense of it. By the time the words,  _ I care about you, _ finally soaked into his dumb, doughy brain, he was gaping like a fish, awkward and unattractive and completely unable to cut it out. Mr. Beck was giving him a patient look, like he could see the confused, delighted hurricane warring inside his brain, and that only made him feel like more of a panicked idiot.

He cleared his throat, wanting to slide onto the dirty concrete floor and let it swallow him. Instead, he turned back to his project and pretended to get back to work, blushing furiously as he stuttered, “Th-thanks, Mr. Beck. I really…that really means a lot to me.”

If Mr. Beck could tell how devastating the bomb he just dropped on him was, he tactfully didn’t mention it. Instead, he kept things light and pretty focused on Peter’s project for the rest of the evening. They worked tirelessly, but the time flew by like they had stepped into their own little world.

Peter couldn’t describe the relief of snapping his new docking port into the rest of the arc reactor’s housing unit, restoring it to the same state it was in before Flash pushed him. He wouldn’t be behind come Monday. He could have an actual  _ weekend, _ and even better, he could sleep when he got home, which meant more to him than he could even express. Mr. Beck gave him a high-five when they finished, and Peter felt uncomfortably giddy about how big the man’s hand was pressed against his own. It was almost intimidating.

He scarcely stopped himself from surging forward and giving the man a joyous hug when they finished. The stress had washed away, and he felt happy and exhausted and exhilarated all at once. He was surprised by how dark it was by the time they left school; time seemed to move differently down in the lab with Mr. Beck. It moved so much faster. Too fast.

Mr. Beck once again offered him a ride home, and Peter gratefully accepted. He kept the man’s jacket on as he dozed in the passenger seat, head resting against the window as they made the slow crawl through Manhattan to Stark Tower. The comfort of Mr. Beck’s clean car and the scent of his cologne, mixed with the warmth of his soft jacket wrapped around him, and the gentle city lights of New York rolling across his face in the dark lulled Peter into the best sleep he’d ever had.


	5. Too good to be true

Through the clingy, deep haze of sleep, Peter could swear he felt a hand running through his hair, crawling up the nape of his neck and carding through his curls. He leaned into the touch, savoring it, even in sleep. The light brush of fingernails on his scalp felt really good. Comforting. They urged him to stay asleep; to stay in this sacred little bubble of perfection surrounding him forever.

But when he opened his eyes, the sensation of a hand running through his hair was gone, like it had never been there at all, and he blinked tiredly over at Mr. Beck, who smiled at him and said, “We’re home, Pete.”

Peter rubbed at his eyes and looked out the window, where the wide base of Stark Tower stood. He gave a short, not-quite-awake-yet nod and started pulling off Mr. Beck’s jacket reluctantly. A sleepy part of his brain quickly wondered what the man would do if Peter pretended to forget he had it on and tried to wear it inside. He’d probably let him borrow it for the weekend. Mr. Beck was nice like that.

“Thanks for the ride home,” Peter mumbled, grabbing his backpack and clumsily shuffling out of the car. “Um. I had a lot of fun tonight.”

“I did too, kid,” Mr. Beck smiled. “Don’t fall asleep in the lobby, okay?”

“ ‘Kay,” Peter yawned. “See you on Monday, Mr. Beck.”

The man’s smile widened. Peter felt his stomach do a weird little flip at the sight. He was constantly surprised by how attractive Mr. Beck was. “See you on Monday, Peter. Have a good weekend.”

He swallowed the hormonal lump in his throat and prayed it was too dark for Mr. Beck to see the blush on his face. “You too.”

With that, Peter shut the door and watched his teacher merge back into traffic. His body felt heavy with exhaustion, like all his clothing was made of stone. But he forced himself inside the building and into the elevator, where he allowed his body to sag bonelessly in the corner for the long ride up to the penthouse.

He replayed the afternoon over and over again in his head. Mr. Beck was…too good to be true, honestly. Not only had they finished repairing his project, but Peter had left the school feeling warmer and more satisfied than he could remember feeling in a long, long time. Mr. Beck had a knack for making him feel like that. Appreciated. Wanted. Like it was just the two of them, against the world, and all the things Peter cared about mattered, the big and little things alike.

Peter smiled even through his fatigue. It was dumb, but he couldn’t wait for Monday. School normally felt like a prison of isolation, but now? Now Peter was actually… _excited,_ about being there, and seeing Mr. Beck, and getting to talk to him about programming and geeky movies and dumb little things that he didn’t have anyone else to talk about with.

He leaned his head against the side of the elevator, letting the long ride start to pull him back into a safe, pleasant sleep. It was a good day. He couldn’t wait to tell his dad about it, whenever that would be, he thought to himself. He yawned and let his eyes slip closed, the sleepiness pulling him under.

His sleepiness didn’t last long.

As soon as the elevator stopped, the doors were being pulled open, hands reaching through and shoving them further apart the second the crack between them formed. Peter jumped, then paled at the look on his dad’s face, his dark brown eyes narrowed into near-black slits. He’d never seen his dad look so furious in his entire life.

“ _Where the hell have you been?!”_

He shrank against the elevator wall, but his dad grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the penthouse, his face a dark, angry red. Peter had to bite his lip to stifle a whine of pain as he was pulled behind his dad on his injured leg. He had never shouted at Peter like this, ever. It shocked him so much that at first, he didn’t even know how to respond.

“I called your school, I called the train station, I have the Captain of the 107th precinct waiting on standby as we speak. I drove around looking for you for over an hour, and then you waltz in here _six hours late_ without so much as a text message - oh wait, you couldn’t have texted me even if it _was_ an emergency! You know how I know that, Peter? Because when I called you, desperately trying to reach you to ensure my _fifteen-year-old son,_ my _only child,_ was alive and well, what did I hear? Your phone. Ringing in your _goddamn bedroom._ ”

“Dad, I - ”

“No, don’t you _dare._ The adult is talking. I’ve had it, Peter. You have no idea how worried I was. You _know_ how important your safety is to me.” He abruptly stopped dragging Peter through their apartment and rounded on him, staring down at him with a naked expression. “How could you do this to me? - Look at me, Peter - how could you? I’ve told you _so many times_ to carry your cellphone. I’ve told you _so many times_ that I need to know where you are, and where you’re going. I’ve told you _so many times_ \- LOOK AT ME!”

“I was just at school!” Peter shouted back, shoulders hunched, but staring back at his dad through a watery, red-rimmed glare. He just wanted to go to bed. He didn’t mean to forget his cellphone, it was an _accident._ He was just too tired from staying up all night to remember it this morning, that was all. He didn’t _mean to,_ and he was home now, so why was his dad yelling at him like this? “I stayed late to work on my project with Mr. Beck! I’m sorry, okay? It was an acci- ”

“It’s not an accident when I _literally reminded you the other day!”_ his dad shouted.

“I was just tired this morning! It’s not that big of a deal!” Peter said. He hated the way his voice broke. He didn’t want to cry, but he wasn’t used to getting yelled at. His dad never used to get mad at him like this. “I’m sorry I worried you, Dad, but I was just at school! It’s not like I was - hanging out in some back alleys, laughing to myself about how worried I was making you! I didn’t even think you’d _notice!”_

He didn’t want to admit it, but there was a tiny, shameful part of Peter that felt...not _good,_ not _happy_ about being yelled at, but. Well, he didn’t know. This was the most his dad had spoken to him in weeks. He wasn’t happy about the situation, not _at all,_ but a piece of anxiety he hadn’t realized was there ebbed away from his chest. His dad still cared, at least enough to get upset. The thought felt silly. But Peter couldn’t deny the tiniest bit of...relief, he felt.

His dad’s face darkened. “What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Now it was Peter’s turn to get angry. His hands clenched into painful fists at his sides. “ _Really?_ I’ve hardly even seen you all week! I thought you’d be downstairs, or at a meeting, or out with Ms. Potts, or doing literally _anything_ else besides hanging around here, because you sure haven’t been lately! And by the way - I wouldn’t have been too tired to forget my phone or even had to stay late at school if you’d paid _half as much_ attention to me last night as you are right now!”

His dad closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. His face was still taut with anger, but he lifted a hand to Peter and said, through clenched teeth, “Okay, alright, you’re right - you’re right, Peter, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brushed you off like that last night. I felt terrible about it. I booked the whole night off so I could help you tonight, to apologize. I was even going to cook dinner.”

The anger in his tone slipped away with each word, until he just sounded as tired as Peter felt. “I was waiting to surprise you when you got home. But then you _didn’t_ come home. And I tried not to freak out. I know you’re not a little kid anymore. But then it started getting dark. And you - Pete, you have _no idea_ the kinds of people that are out there. Your grandpa wasn’t even a _tenth_ as rich as I am, and I can’t _tell you_ how many times people tried to kidnap me to get to his money.”

“I _know,_ Dad. You’ve told me - ”

“That’s just it. I’ve _told you._ ” The anger draped back over his face like a curtain. “I’ve _told you,_ over and over again, to _carry your goddamn cellphone._ It’s not an unreasonable request. It’s literally the least you could do. But no, here you are, rolling your eyes at me, when twenty minutes ago I was so scared out of my fucking mind that I would never see my only child again that I couldn’t even _breathe._ ”

“I _didn’t MEAN TO!”_ A near-hysteric tone took over Peter’s voice. His dad wasn’t even _trying_ to listen to him. None of this mattered. Nothing bad happened. Peter was safe; in fact, he’d been in the safest place he possibly could be all night long. His dad didn’t even care. He didn’t want to talk about it, he just wanted to be mad. Peter felt like he was shouting at a brick wall. “ _Dad._ What do you want me to say? I said I was sorry, I explained why it happened, I’ll try really hard to make sure it doesn’t happen again - ”

“Oh, I _know_ it won’t happen again,” Tony seethed. “Because you’re not stepping _foot_ outside this tower without me or an escort _ever_ again.”

“That’s not fair!” Peter _was_ crying now. Damn it. His legs shook from how humiliated and patronized he felt. “I’m not your _prisoner!_ I’m almost sixteen - I’m almost legally an _adult!_ I don’t need to be babysat just because _you’ve_ got issues! It’s not fair!”

“It _is_ fair when I’ve given you so many second chances!” his dad roared. “You want to know what it’s like being a prisoner? You think having Happy following you around is bad? Try being thrown in the trunk of a goddamn car!” He stepped forward into Peter’s space, but didn’t lower his voice. “I have to protect the one thing in this world that I can’t live without, and that’s _you,_ Peter!”

Peter was crying too hard to speak, now. They stood there for a long time, his dad just watching him fall apart. He hated it. He wanted so desperately to prove he wasn’t a little kid anymore, that he didn’t need his dad hovering over him so much, but here he was, sobbing like a two-year-old. It burned him to think what he must’ve looked like to his father then. It made the tears come faster.

After a long moment, his dad sighed, and then said in a steadier voice, “I’m sorry, Peter. I’m sorry if it embarrasses you. But your safety comes first. I love you, but I’m not going to let you put yourself in danger the way _my_ dad did.”

“Please - not - that,” Peter choked out through his sobs. “Please, Dad, not th-that. I won’t forget again, I _promise._ I promise. Just pl-lease not that. Please. I promise I won’t.”

He hated the sound of his own voice. He hated how hot his skin felt, how warm the tears were running down his cheeks. He hated how naked he felt, how mad he was at himself for disappointing his dad, how guilty he felt for making him worry.

He hated that, in this moment, he hated his dad.

Tony didn’t speak for a really long time. Then his phone started to ring, and he stepped away from Peter, turning his back as he said, “We’ll talk more about it tomorrow. Go to bed.”

Peter didn’t move, just watched his dad answer his phone through a veil of tears. He watched the anger and tension seep out of his shoulders like water out of a rag as he pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey, Steve. Yeah, I - yeah. He’s here, he came home. Thanks for waiting, I - yeah, thank you. Don’t worry, everybody’s okay.”

 _I’m not okay,_ Peter thought, tears still streaming down his cheeks. Part of him wanted his dad to turn around, see him still standing there, hang up on whoever the hell Steve was and come wrap him in his arms. But he didn’t. All the anger was gone from his voice as he spoke into the phone, and Peter watched him walk out of the room, without looking back.

Coldness and exhaustion swept over him like wind through a field. He turned and limped to his bedroom, the cooling tears on his face sending shivers throughout his whole body.

He hated feeling like this. He hated that it was his dad who made him feel like this, who made him feel like a helpless child, like he couldn’t even trust Peter to spend a few measly hours alone without needing a bodyguard to protect him. He was so tired of the way everyone in his life treated him. He was either patronized or ignored. Babied or shunned. Condescended to or kept at arm’s length. There was no in-between. Nobody treated him like his own person, like an individual, like the almost-adult he really was. When people looked at him, the only thing they saw was Tony Stark’s son, for better or worse.

Even his dad.

He thought about the way Mr. Beck spoke to him. Treated him. The way adults spoke to each other, the way they listened, without immediately dismissing what the other had to say. Mr. Beck treated him like an equal. Maybe it wasn’t entirely normal or - or appropriate, but - it was more respect than Peter had ever been shown in his entire life. Mr. Beck was the only person who saw Peter as his own person. A person he liked.

_I care about you._

Peter didn’t realize what he was searching for when he started rummaging around in his backpack, until he found it. He didn’t know why he was pulling out his syllabus, until he looked at the top right-hand corner of the first page. He didn’t know why he was reaching for his forgotten cellphone on his nightstand, until he was dialling Mr. Beck’s number.


	6. Red flags

Mr. Beck picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

Peter had stopped crying, but the deep, gentle tone of the man’s voice made fresh tears roll down his cheeks. He sniffled - he couldn’t help it - and tried not to sound too blubbery as he said, “H-hi, Mr. Beck. It’s Peter. From Robotics Lab. Um - I’m...I’m sorry to call you, like this. It’s not school related. I just...”

“Peter?” Concern bloomed in Mr. Beck’s voice. He sounded like he was getting to his feet. “Hey, are you okay? Where are you?”

“ ‘m - I’m at home.” He took a deep, watery breath, but it didn’t help. “I...I just had a really bad fight with my dad. I’m sorry. I just...didn’t know who else to call.”

“Hey, hey, kid, it’s okay,” Mr. Beck said. He sounded so genuine. Grateful tears soaked Peter’s entire face. “Peter, are you - are you safe? Do you need me to come get you?”

His heart thudded in his chest. Mr. Beck would come get him, if he was in trouble. His chest ached from how good that realization felt. “I’m safe. Just...sorry. I just wanted to talk.”

“We can talk,” Mr. Beck said, calmer now. Peter heard a faint squeak in the background and pictured Mr. Beck sitting back down on an old, comfy sofa, one with plush cushions and rusty springs. “Tell me what happened.”

“I forgot my phone,” he said, sniffling again. “I didn’t mean to. I was just really tired and distracted this morning. And then I...I didn’t call my dad, to tell him I was staying after school, because I thought he’d be at work. He’s been working really late these last couple weeks. But he wasn’t. He was waiting for me, and then I didn’t show, so he…”

“Panicked?”

Peter rubbed at his wet eyes. “Yeah. He got really, really mad at me when I got home. He yelled at me and said I can never leave the tower without supervision again.”

“Wow, that’s...quite the overreaction,” Mr. Beck said, sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Peter. That must have been hard. He shouldn’t yell at you.”

It felt good, hearing someone else - an adult - validate how he felt. Peter sniffled again. “I…I really don’t wanna be chaperoned to and from school again,” he mumbled. “It’s hard enough to fit in with other people  _ without _ armed security guards following me around all the time. I know that he’s just looking out for me, but - ”

“There’s a difference between looking out for your kids and controlling them,” Mr. Beck cut in, gently. “Maybe there  _ are _ circumstances where the line is blurred, or hard to find, and I can sympathize if your dad thinks this is one of them, but he has no right to treat you like that. You’re his son, not his dog. He doesn’t need to pay people to take you outside.”

A small smile crept onto Peter’s face at Mr. Beck’s joke, despite himself. He didn’t know how, but he could tell that Mr. Beck knew.

But the smile didn’t last. The tears began to fall faster as he took a shaky breath and said, “I just...don’t know what to do, Mr. Beck. He just won’t  _ listen,  _ and I don’t really...I don’t really  _ have _ anybody else, ‘cept him. But lately he’s...he’s so busy, I hardly even see him. During the week, I’m lucky if I get to share two sentences with him after school. It gets...” His tongue tripped over the word  _ lonely. _ Lonely was pathetic, and he didn’t want to sound any more pathetic to Mr. Beck than he already did. “I just feel really...isolated, you know?”

There was a sigh on the other end of the line that Peter recognized. It was the, “I don’t want to say it, but it needs to be said, so here goes,” sigh that adults sometimes made. He held his phone to his ear in a white-knuckled grip.

“Peter, that’s...that’s not okay.” Mr. Beck’s voice was sad, but not pitying. “You aren’t an object. You’re a human being. He doesn’t get to just put you away on a shelf and only take you out when it’s convenient for  _ him. _ That’s not how  _ any _ relationship works, but  _ especially _ not parent-child relationships. It’s not fair for him to disregard your needs and then subject you to even  _ more _ social exclusion when you try to get those needs met somewhere else. That’s called neglect.”

Cold dread settled like a weight in his stomach. Was that what this was? Was it really that…serious? It almost didn’t sound like a real thing, like the idea of his dad  _ neglecting  _ him was so foreign and alien that he couldn’t comprehend it. Up until recently, his dad  _ doted _ on him. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know what to think. He just sat there on his floor, silently soaking his lap in tears.

“Peter? You there?”

“I’m here,” he whispered. “ ‘m sorry. I just...I just don’t know what to do, Mr. Beck.”

“Hey, it’s gonna be alright,” the man said. “I’m here for you, Peter. We’ll figure something out. At the very least, I’ll talk to Principal Morita, tell him your new bodyguards are too distracting for your classmates or something. If we’re lucky he’ll make them stand outside in the hallway during class. That should at least give you a break from them, when you’re with me.”

He couldn’t keep the small smile from spreading across his face. His cheeks felt warm. “Thanks, Mr. Beck.”

“Don’t sweat it, kid. I know it can be tough having a narcissistic parent.”

Peter blinked. A somewhat confused frown spread across his face. That didn’t sound right - not about his dad, at least. He was overprotective, sure, but Peter would never consider him a  _ narcissist. _ He had no idea where Mr. Beck got that idea from.

As if sensing his confusion, Mr. Beck asked, “He’s never done this before, has he? Yelled at you for staying out late like this?”

“Um…” He hadn’t, but to be fair, Peter never  _ had _ stayed out late like this before. It wasn’t like he had an active social life keeping him from home. “No...”

“So it came out of nowhere? Seemingly totally out of the blue?”

“Well, I mean, he’s told me not to forget my phone lots of times, and I know it’s something that really upsets him, but - no, he’s...he’s never yelled at me like this, before.”

Mr. Beck made a thoughtful hum. “I have to be honest, Pete, a sudden change in behavior like that is usually a bad sign, especially considering everything else you’ve told me. It might sound absurd, but trust me, I’ve taught enough kids that I can see the red flags a mile away.”

Something itched at the back of Peter’s brain. It took him a second to figure out what it was, and then he said, before he could stop himself, “I thought you said you’d never taught a class before…?”

Mr. Beck chuckled. The confusion rolling over Peter swelled and solidified around him. “I haven’t. I used to do private tutoring, once upon a time. That’s how I put myself through grad school.” His voice was back to the light, gentle one Peter recognized. The knot in his stomach unravelled and melted away. “I tutored lots of affluent kids in any and all things science. These kinds of...toxic relationships tend to run in rich families, I’ve noticed.”

Peter’s whole body deflated. He couldn’t...believe it. Trying to view his and his dad’s relationship as  _ toxic _ didn’t work, it just came up blank, like he was trying to render an image with missing data. His dad wasn’t trying to make his life miserable. He was just scared, and yeah, he wasn’t listening, but...a couple weeks of not having great communication didn’t mean their whole relationship was... _ toxic, _ right? 

But how would he know? After all, an hour ago, he didn’t think it was possible his dad could yell at him like that, either.

Neither of them said anything for a little while, but Peter was too caught up in his muddled thoughts to worry about it. He didn’t know what to think. His dad loved him, he knew that. He wouldn’t purposefully isolate him; it wasn’t  _ his _ fault Peter didn’t have other friends to be spending time with. He would never want that. He knew his dad cared about him more than anything else in the whole world.

But then he thought about earlier, and last night, and - really, when he started recollecting it - almost every day this week, how he’d seemingly ceased to exist the moment his dad’s phone rang. How he didn’t even want Peter spending time with him in the lab, because he didn’t want to be distracted from his work, but would stop working altogether to talk to some random guy on the phone. Peter didn’t want to believe what Mr. Beck was telling him. But he couldn’t stop thinking about how badly that had hurt, and how his dad hadn’t even noticed.

He was pulled from his painful thoughts when Mr. Beck suddenly asked, “How’s your leg?”

Peter blinked back to reality and looked down at his lap. His leg still hurt from his dad pulling him through the penthouse so quickly earlier, but the thought of mentioning that to Mr. Beck made him feel like he was going to break down into sobs. He was terrified of what the man might say about it. So he cleared his throat and replied, “It’s starting to feel a little sore again.”

Mr. Beck hummed again. “How’s the bruise look?”

Peter’s face flushed. He hadn’t checked it since this morning. He held the phone away from his face and discreetly tried to shimmy out of his jeans without the man hearing, but his belt buckle clinked loudly when he undid it, and Peter flinched. There was no  _ way _ Mr. Beck hadn’t heard that. Oh god. Was he going to think Peter was a total weirdo for taking off his pants with his teacher on the phone? Of course he was. Peter wanted to drop dead.

He took a deep breath and quickly pushed his jeans down, then pulled the phone back against his ear. His voice was labored and humiliated when he stuttered, “It’s, uhm, it’s still pretty dark. More purple than red, now.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Mr. Beck said. “You should elevate your leg. Might be kind of tricky, with the bruise being on your thigh and all. Maybe try hanging upside down.”

Despite everything, Peter grinned. “That’s some, uh, stellar medical advice, Mr. Beck.”

The man laughed. Peter felt a wave of glee shoot through his whole body and take all the bad things with it, for a blissful, perfect moment. “Hey, Midtown Tech only hires the best and brightest. They didn’t just let me in for my good looks alone, you know.”

_ Don’t say it. Don’t. Don’t say it, Peter. It’s too far. Don’t do it. _

“They could have.”

Peter’s face paled. His whole body went numb. Oh god.  _ Oh god, why, why did I say it??? _

But Mr. Beck was chuckling, and not in the, “Okay, that was super awkward and I don’t know how to respond so I’m just going to laugh it off and move on” kind of way, but in the genuinely amused, heartfelt, playful sort of way. Peter gaped like a fish. He didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to say now. How did he backtrack from that? Why did his dumb stupid mouth not listen to him???

“You’re too cute for your own good, you know.”

Peter’s face burned all the way to the tips of his ears. He pressed his knees to his chest and let his face flop against them, curling up into a ball, like he was trying to hide his embarrassment even though no one was around to see how red his face was. Mr. Beck could probably tell, anyways. It was like a superpower with him. “Th...thanks, Mr. Beck,” he mumbled.

He could hear the smile in Mr. Beck’s voice. “You’re very welcome.” Then, in a gentler, but more serious tone, the man asked, “Peter, is it alright with you if I text you from time to time? Just to check in?”

His heart skipped a beat. Peter opened his mouth, but before he could gush about how much he would love that, Mr. Beck added, “I know you probably think I’m overreacting, and I really hope I am, but...I’ve seen some bad things. I’ll sleep better at night knowing I can shoot you a quick text to make sure you’re okay.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, embarrassed by how breathless he sounded, “yeah, I’d, um, I’d really like that.”

“Me too.” Mr. Beck’s voice dipped to a low, smooth tone that made Peter shiver all over. “You should probably get to bed now, young man.”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, though part of him wanted to stay on the phone forever. “You’re right.”

“Good night, Peter.” There was another smile in the man’s voice. Every word he said practically oozed affection. Peter felt so incredibly warm, all the way down to his core. “I’ll talk to you again soon.”

“Good night, Mr. Beck,” Peter said, listening to the long moment of silence that followed, until the call finally ended with a single beep. He looked down at his phone, feeling like he was standing at the edge of a great canyon, filled right to the top with a billion different emotions, more than he could ever hope to come to terms with. He felt overwhelmed. But, overall...better. Better than he was before he called.

He actually smiled as he crawled into bed, taking his cellphone with him. Part of him felt bad for not warning Mr. Beck that he was infamously terrible at forgetting to check his phone, but, as he turned his lamp off and saw his screen light up in the dark, and read the short, playful message that said, _“Try putting a pillow under your thigh. Probably more comfortable than sleeping upside down, ”_ he stopped feeling bad about it completely.

After all. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be forgetting about his cellphone again any time soon.


	7. Sadcakes

A loud buzzing sound woke Peter from a fitful sleep. There was light shining in his face, cutting through the darkness of his bedroom and making him squint. He blinked blearily at his phone, resting innocently beside his head on the pillow, its screen brightly lit up to alert him of a new message. The rest of his room was pitch-black, though he could see sunlight trying to poke through the heavy curtains on his windows. He had no idea what time it was. It felt early.

Clumsily, he reached for his phone and opened his texts, feeling much more alert when he recognized Mr. Beck’s number at the top of the screen. The first thing he did was save it to his contact list (bringing the numbers in his phone to a whopping grand total of four). The second thing he did was bury his face in his pillow as his eyes skimmed over the message.

 _“Just wanted to see how you were feeling,”_ it said, then, popping up underneath it: “ _Remember I’m here for you if you need anything.”_

He couldn’t keep the dumb smile off his face. Mr. Beck was so...good. He didn’t know how else to describe it. Every little thing he did made Peter feel happy. It was almost scary, knowing someone else had that kind of power over him. But...kids got crushes on adults all the time, right? It couldn’t be _that_ abnormal. And it was okay, as long as he kept it to himself.

His thumbs moved sluggishly as he texted back, blushing in the dark. There were so many things he wanted to say. He wanted to be cheesy. He wanted to say dumb, dorky things like, _“Feeling much better now, thanks to you,”_ and, _“I’m here for you too, Mr. Beck,”_ and, _“Really? Anything? ;)”_

But he didn’t say any of that, not just because of the fear of rejection and heartbreak, or because it was wrong, but because it...it would be unfair of him, to put Mr. Beck in that position. Having a silly little one-sided crush was one thing, but Mr. Beck would be the one who’d get into major trouble if...if, by some God-given miracle, he liked Peter the way Peter liked him, and they got caught. Mr. Beck was the one his dad would hunt down like a dog. Peter couldn’t do that to him.

So instead, he texted back, _“Thanks, Mr. Beck. I’m ok :)”_ and then stared at his too-bright screen for a full minute before the reply came in. _“Glad to hear. Make sure you eat a good breakfast to make up for skipping dinner last night.”_

Peter’s cheeks burned. _“How do you know I skipped dinner last night?”_

_“Educated guess. We didn’t eat any at school, and I was planning to buy you some on the way home, but you were out like a light. I’m just assuming your dad didn’t feed you before or during his little tantrum. And judging by how tired you sounded on the phone, you went straight to bed like I told you to, didn’t you?”_

Peter stared at his phone. Read the message again, a third time, then just his favorite parts. _I was planning to buy you some on the way home._ Mr. Beck wanted to buy him dinner. _You went straight to bed like I told you to, didn’t you?_ God. He could feel electricity shooting through his veins.

Mr. Beck could read him like an open book. That made him feel...a lot of things. Flattered, mostly. It meant he was paying attention, and that felt good - it felt really good, having someone like Mr. Beck noticing him as much as he was. Peter felt seen. He felt wanted.

And he felt...kind of weird, too. Not in a bad way, just - weird. Overwhelmed, maybe. He wasn’t used to being so conspicuous. Peter honestly felt like a ghost, most days. He was invisible to most people and terrifying to the rest. People didn’t typically seek him out, except for Flash, who knew Peter would never jeopardize his freedom by fighting back. Teachers would call on him in class to answer questions. Other than that, Peter went most of his days without talking to anyone.

So it was kind of...jarring, to have someone like Mr. Beck, spending time with him after class and driving him home and _texting him,_ pointing out all the subtle details he noticed about Peter, keeping track of things like his injury and his diet and the beginning stages of his project. It was a drastic change from feeling like the only people who knew he existed despised him for it, besides his dad.

There was a painful tug on his heart at the thought of his dad. He didn’t want to leave his room. He didn’t know what would be worse; to find his dad out there, waiting for him, ready to resume their fight, or to find the penthouse barren and quiet, his dad nowhere to be found, gone who-knows-where for who-knows-how-long.

He curled up tighter on his side and woke his phone back up, then started typing, _“Breakfast sounds really good right now, actually. But idk if I’m ready to see my dad yet.”_ He didn’t throw in his worries about his dad not being there at all. He didn’t...he didn’t want to hear Mr. Beck say that he was being neglected. Not again.

He hit send and waited, then smiled softly at the reply that came in.

_“Say the word and I’ll help break you out of there. Pretty sure I have a spare lawn chair and a drone lying around here somewhere.”_

_“Jokes aside, you still need to eat, kid. You’ve got this. And don’t forget that I’m just a call or text away if you need me.”_

There were so many things Peter wanted to say to that. Incredibly embarrassing, inappropriate things. He really wanted to hug Mr. Beck, in that moment. How long had it been since he’d hugged anyone? He tried his best to recall, but no concrete memory came to mind. He thought it must have been his dad, last Christmas.

He didn’t end up saying any of the monumentally-bad-idea things that were pinging around inside his head. Instead, he pushed down on his hormonal teenage impulses and typed, _“Thanks, Mr. Beck. You’re a really good teacher,”_ which felt wrong, but it was the only appropriate thing to call him.

He waited a moment, but when no reply came, he forced himself out of bed and started getting dressed. Waiting around for Mr. Beck to text him back was embarrassing and pathetic. It was Saturday, and he was a grown man, so Peter was pretty sure he had much better things to do than sit around texting his fifteen-year-old student.

Not that that stopped him from keeping his phone in-hand, even as he pulled his clothes on.

Once he was dressed, he forced himself to face the music and headed for the kitchen. His leg only hurt for the first few steps before the throbbing faded into the background and he was able to walk limp-free. He made it all the way to the end of the hallway, and then the mouth-watering scent of pancakes and the gentle sizzle of them cooking in a pan wafted over him. Eagerly, he crept into the kitchen, surprised by the sight of his dad standing at the stove, cooking.

For a moment, Peter just stood there and let the moment last. It had been...a really, really long time since his dad made a Saturday morning breakfast. Peter was lucky if the man joined him for dinner, most days.

And on top of that, he was making pancakes.

His dad turned to add the pancake he’d been flipping to the covered stack on the island behind him, and froze when he saw Peter in the doorway. He smiled, a strained, awkward expression, and said in a too-cheerful voice, “Morning, kiddo. Hope you’re hungry. I made breakfast.”

Peter glanced at the mountain-high stack of pancakes and the arrangement of various toppings and correctively asked, “Sadcakes?”

His dad scrunched his eyebrows and looked between him and the feast he’d prepared. “What? No, why would you-” His mouth opened and closed a few times, and then he heaved a defeated sigh, his shoulders slumping. “Okay, fine. You caught me. They’re sadcakes.”

Peter’s heart hurt, but he still found himself smiling. This, at least, was one thing that hadn’t changed. His dad had never been a great cook, but pancakes was always the one thing he made perfectly, even before Peter was born. He couldn’t remember when or how it started, but whenever Peter was sad, his dad always made him a whole feast of pancakes, night or day. Eventually it became an inside joke that Peter’s sadness was a requirement for his dad to cook them, and thus “sadcakes” became a thing.

His dad gave him a small smile when his stomach loudly rumbled, and he nodded towards the smaller breakfast table by the window and said, “Have a seat, I’ll dish you up.”

“Do you need any help? I can - ”

“No no, it’s fine, Pete. Just have a seat.”

Peter obeyed, watching his dad bustle around the kitchen as he sank into his chair. He didn’t know what to do with his phone. It was probably bad manners to leave it on the table, but kind of awkward leaving it in his lap, and uncomfortable sitting in his back pocket. In the end, he just kept it in his hand, under the table. That way, he’d feel it if it vibrated, if he got a text.

Finally, his dad started loading the table up with the assortment of pancake toppings he’d prepared, and slid a full plate of them in front of Peter, before taking his own seat in the chair across from him. Peter dutifully began topping his stack just the way he liked them, tense and wondering when they were going to address the elephant in the room. He figured his dad would wait until after breakfast.

But he was wrong.

As soon as they were both ready to start eating, his dad sighed, lowered his fork and said, “Look, Peter, about last night...I owe you an apology.”

Peter looked up sharply, mouth open around a forkful of pancake. “Huh?”

“I’m sorry for yelling at you. And I overreacted. You’re not - you’re not forbidden from leaving the tower without supervision forever. I didn’t mean that.”

Peter set his fork down on his plate. “Really?”

“I know it’s hard for you,” his dad said. He smiled at him, but Peter could easily see the sadness in his face. “I know you didn’t ask for this. The last thing I want is to make things harder for you, Pete.” He paused, took a deep breath, and then met Peter’s eyes, “ _But,_ last night was really, _really_ hard for me too, and I don’t think I’m being unreasonable by suggesting we make some changes.”

Peter’s heart sank. He knew this was coming. This moment. The moment his dad said public school was too high of a risk, or told him Happy would be chaperoning him everywhere for the rest of his entire life, or hired a team of bodyguards to escort him to and from school every day. He clenched his hands in his lap and forced himself to keep looking at his father. Behind his eyes, he could feel the familiar sting of tears already threatening to well up.

“Work has been a nightmare for me these last few months, but I want you to know, Peter, you are, always have been, and always will be my first priority. Hell, you’re my _only_ priority, really, when all’s said and done. I’m sorry I haven’t been acting like it lately. I’m going to try, okay? I’m gonna make an effort so we can start spending more time together again. Starting with getting you to and from school.”

Peter blinked, shaking his head a little to show he didn’t understand. His dad gave a small, hopeful smile and said, “I’m going to start driving you to school, and picking you up in the afternoons. I know that’s not the low-key existence you were hoping for, but - maybe, after a couple months of you showing me you can remember to take your cellphone with you, we can try public transit again. And in the meantime…at least we’ll be spending a little more time with each other, every day. I’ve already let Pepper know that while I’m driving you, she needs to be available to answer my phone.”

“ _You’ll_ be driving me?” Peter asked, almost not daring to hope. “No Happy? It’ll be just you and me?”

“Just you and me,” his dad said, a real smile on his face, this time. “And I’ll do my best to keep it that way, kiddo. No taking calls unless it’s an emergency.”

Peter clutched the phone in his lap with both hands. He didn’t know what to say. On one hand, being dropped off at school by Tony Stark himself wasn’t going to help make the other kids feel less nervous about talking to him, but, on the other…

He had really missed him.

He nodded and gave him a grateful smile, then glanced down at his phone, before looking back up and saying, “I’m really sorry I forgot my phone again, Dad.” He held it up, though his dad didn’t seem surprised to see it. Maybe he actually... _noticed_ that Peter was carrying it, earlier. “It’s just...I know how important it is to you, and I _hate_ making you worry, but...it’s just…” He lowered his head, felt his face burn hot with shame. He didn’t want to say it. But his dad was trying, so...the least he could do was be honest.

“It’s...embarrassing, carrying around a phone all day that I never use. I’m the _only_ kid in school who doesn’t use it. And not because I don’t _want_ to, but because...I don’t...have any...reason to. I know you gave it to me for emergencies, but that’s just it - it’s _just_ for emergencies. And since, you know, other than last night, there haven’t _been_ any emergencies...I just forget about it. Because it sucks, carrying it around all the time but never having to look at it, watching every other kid in school be glued to theirs all day long, texting each other and socializing and stuff.”

The confession itself was humiliating, but it was made a thousand times worse by the heartbroken look on his dad’s face. He had grown up with a rich and famous dad too, and it never stopped _him_ from making friends. Peter hated the idea of his dad knowing what a loser he was.

“It’s disheartening, I guess. It’s kind of like a reminder that, no matter what I do, I’m always gonna be the odd one out - ”

“Peter, you know it’s - it’s not too late to give private school a chance. I know you like Midtown, but at least at private school, every kid there will have parents like... _almost_ like me. T’Challa’s younger sister - you remember Shuri? - she goes to BWL. You could enroll there next year, and at least you’d have someone you know and get along with, right? Plus - better security.”

“But, Dad, the whole _point_ of going to Midtown was - ”

An incessant ringing cut Peter off, and he watched, his heart sinking, as his dad pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. He could see the internal debate play out on the man’s face, before he flicked an apologetic gaze to Peter and said, “Sorry, kiddo, just - just one second, this won’t take long.”

“But - ”

“You keep eating, I’ll be back in just a minute, alright?”

He found himself unable to speak as his dad got up and left the table, speaking too quietly into his phone for Peter to hear anything except the first hello. _Maybe this time,_ he thought, _maybe this time, he really will be just a minute._ But the longer he sat, waiting, the more that painful and familiar disappointment crept over him. He finished eating his pancakes, which had gone cold, and cleaned up his dishes before heading back to his room, Mr. Beck’s concerned words echoing in his head. _He doesn’t get to just put you away on a shelf and only take you out when it’s convenient for_ him. _That’s called neglect._

He curled up on his bed, still holding his phone, and stared at the wall. He wanted to leave. But he had nowhere to go.

His phone abruptly buzzed, and he opened it way too eagerly when Mr. Beck’s name flashed at the top of the screen. The simple, considerate text of, _“Did you get some food into you?”_ momentarily melted the hurt building up in his chest, and he found himself smiling as he began to text back, wishing that the weekend was already over.


	8. Starvation

The next few weeks were a series of ups and downs for Peter.

The ups came at school, though midterms were in full-swing and each class became a lot more stressful in its own way. Peter usually studied for exams way more than he needed to, but this time around, he actually let himself slack, just a bit. He spent most of his free time working on his Robotics Lab project, even though he was way past the midterm mark and much closer to the finishing stages than most of his classmates.

Mr. Beck didn’t have a full day of teaching, so Peter would casually sneak into the lab during study break, or on his lunch, or during his free period, if it wasn’t occupied. Part of him hoped he’d get to see Mr. Beck one-on-one if he kept this up, but the rest of him was perfectly content to use the time to keep working on his project uninterrupted. Mr. Beck was always really impressed with how much progress Peter made in between classes, and he would smile and clap Peter on the shoulder as he showered him with praise, and...well. Even if Peter didn’t get to spend time with him when he snuck into the lab, those moments at the start of class totally made up for it.

And Mr. Beck still spent the most time with him, at the end of class, when they’d sit together and talk. Peter couldn’t remember the last time they actually discussed anything school-related. Most of their conversations centered on getting to know each other, which was awesome. Mr. Beck seemed particularly concerned about his home life, which...hadn’t really changed. But Peter didn’t let it get him down. Talking about it with Mr. Beck really helped.

He’d still get the odd text from him too, after school and on weekends. Most of the time he was just checking in, but sometimes he’d send something unexpected, like photos of things he’d seen that apparently reminded him of Peter, or books or DVDs Peter had gushed about that he found in the wild. Peter loved those texts the most. It was amazing, knowing Mr. Beck _thought about him,_ and listened to him well enough to remember the things he’d talked about, and enjoyed talking with him to the point that he’d go out of his way to send him photos of things he liked. It felt like they were...friends. And Peter couldn’t explain how happy that made him.

So, the ups came at school. He got to spend time with Mr. Beck, and when he wasn’t forced to work on in-class assignments for his other courses, he got to spend his time working on his Robotics Lab project. Things were good. He was still widely and steadfastly ignored by everyone but his teachers, but that had really started to bother him less and less, lately.

And then there were the downs.

The downs came...basically every moment he _wasn’t_ at school, or texting with Mr. Beck. His dad made it to the first week of April before he asked Happy to step in as their driver. He still rode to school with Peter, sitting beside him in the back of the car, but he’d only keep the father-and-son-bonding charade up for a few minutes before he inevitably went back to his phone. A few days later, he didn’t even do _that_ much.

And it...it wasn’t like Peter really gave it his all, either. He didn’t exactly try and steer the conversation on the rare occasions his dad would start one. He did, at first - he would ask about work and Ms. Potts and the new tech SI was working on, or bring up something interesting he’d seen online, or talk about the things he was enjoying learning about in school. But the conversation would eventually die if Peter stopped stoking it, like it was his responsibility to keep it going, and that frustrated him. So he stopped trying. Besides, Mr. Beck said it was wrong that he was the one struggling to get his dad to open up. He said their relationship was backwards.

But by the time Happy took over as their driver, it didn’t really matter. His conversations with his dad were only a few short sentences long, if they even started at all.

Home wasn’t much better. He really thought his dad was making an effort, at first. He was home a lot more often - working, yeah, but still at _home_ \- but a few hours in the evenings became half an hour after school, until his dad rarely even stepped foot out of the car when Happy pulled over in front of the tower. He’d always say he had a meeting, or work to do at the SI compound, or had plans he couldn’t change, all while not looking up from his phone.

It...stung. Peter felt pushed away. At one point, his insecurities got the better of him, and he actually found himself wondering if his dad was really as busy as he said, or if he was just looking for any excuse he could come up with to avoid hanging around him. Maybe things weren’t really that hectic at work at all. Maybe he just didn’t want to be at home with him.

The thought ate away at him, sometimes. But Peter didn’t tell Mr. Beck about that part.

—

Almost every class allocated the whole week before midterms to pretty much just studying. Most of the teachers had delegated class time for exam prep, and since the rest of his classmates had broken off into study groups, Peter quietly slipped out whenever he could to find somewhere quiet to study by himself.

Usually he went to the library, but today every single computer and table was taken by the time he got there. He felt weird about sneaking into the Robotics Lab if he wasn’t going to be working on his project, but everywhere else he looked was also packed to the brim with his schoolmates, so really, he reasoned to himself, he pretty much had no choice. He needed to at least do _some_ studying.

The door to Robotics Lab was typically locked whenever Peter snuck in, but today, he noticed it was slightly ajar when he came around the corner. For a moment, he felt giddy with excitement that maybe Mr. Beck would be there and maybe he’d keep Peter company while he studied, but then he realized that he was probably teaching another class right now, and his eager steps faltered.

But when he peeked his head through the door, glancing down into the basement lab, he was surprised to find it empty. It didn’t look like anyone was using it, and Mr. Beck was nowhere to be found - though his black shoulder-bag was resting on top of the desk, and his red jacket was draped over the back of his chair.

Peter smiled and descended the steps. “Mr. Beck?” he called, even though there wasn’t really anywhere the man could be hiding. He didn’t really think Mr. Beck would mind if he studied in here, so he walked to the back of the room and sat at his usual table, pulling his textbooks from his backpack and making himself comfortable. He had free period next class, so he’d be able to stay for a while and get a fair amount of reviewing done, if he concentrated.

But concentrating turned out to be a little harder than he thought.

Normally, when he snuck in here to work on his project, he was so focused on making progress so he could impress Mr. Beck that his mind didn’t really wander too much. Though, to be fair - the lab was always _empty_ whenever he broke in here. Now, even though Mr. Beck was nowhere to be seen, just knowing that any second he could walk through the door was making Peter’s hands fidget and his knees bounce. He kept glancing up at the top of the stairs, and then his gaze would fall on Mr. Beck’s things left unattended at the front of the room, and his mind would start racing.

And it was dumb, because it wasn’t like anything would even... _happen_ if Mr. Beck came in. He’d probably be surprised to see Peter, but then they’d most likely just chat while Peter studied, if Mr. Beck let him stay. It wasn’t like anything out of the ordinary would happen just because they’d be alone.

But that didn’t stop Peter from feeling like he was doing something wrong. Not, like, in a _bad_ way, necessarily, just - something he knew he shouldn’t be doing. He felt nervous, and excited, and like he’d get in trouble if he got caught. And that was really dumb, because he genuinely was pretty sure Mr. Beck wouldn’t mind that he was studying in here, so...he didn’t really get why he felt so apprehensive about the man walking in on him. He wasn’t doing anything bad.

It wasn’t like he was...touching something he wasn’t supposed to. Or violating Mr. Beck’s personal space. Or doing something inappropriate, especially here at school.

Peter looked at Mr. Beck’s jacket again.

His hand felt uncomfortably sweaty as he set his pen down and pushed himself up onto his feet. His legs kind of felt like jello as he slowly crept to the front of the room, eyes locked onto the door at the top of the stairs. This was so dumb. He felt guilty for even thinking it.

But what Mr. Beck didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right?

He ran his hand over the top of the bag as he walked around the desk. He was curious what Mr. Beck had in there, sure, but that was way too far. He didn’t want to be any grosser than he was already being. He didn’t want to violate Mr. Beck’s trust even a fraction more than he already was.

His hand reached for the jacket, then hesitated before making contact. This was wrong. He had something good with Mr. Beck. They were _friends,_ sort of, and Peter didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that. He didn’t know what he would do if...if Mr. Beck stopped hanging around him, as much. If he stopped spending one-on-one time with him in class and stopped texting him. The thought almost made Peter’s throat close up. Just thinking it made him feel lonely enough to cry.

But at the same time, he just...he wanted something. He wanted some kind of physical contact, some form of intimacy. He was _craving_ it. He could feel it on his skin, on the tips of his fingers and the palms of his hands. He wanted touch. He would be quick. He wouldn’t get caught.

Anxiety churned his gut as he delicately slipped Mr. Beck’s jacket off the back of the chair. He let his fingers run over the soft material, soothing some of the ache in his chest. He caught a whiff of Mr. Beck’s cologne as he brought the jacket closer, and a wave of comfort rolled over him, easing his guilt and his nerves, for just a moment. He hugged the jacket to his chest. It was so large, he could bury his face in the collar’s lapels, so he did, closing his eyes as he slowly inhaled.

He felt calm.

He leaned against Mr. Beck’s desk, just letting himself have this, for a second. It wasn’t as good as a real hug, but he could pretend, for a second. He imagined Mr. Beck holding him the way he was holding his jacket. He imagined Mr. Beck resting his head on top of Peter’s, burying the lower half of his face into Peter’s hair the way Peter was into the collar of his jacket.

It was so tender it made his chest hurt. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, why he felt so sad, all of a sudden. He needed something and he didn’t know what. He just knew there was something...missing, something he should have been getting but wasn’t. A sudden swell of starvation when he didn’t even know he was hungry.

He held Mr. Beck’s jacket tighter. It wasn’t enough, but he didn’t want to let go.

And then he heard the soft click of the door falling shut.

Peter jerked and almost threw the jacket away from him in panic. He looked up at the top of the stairs, and his stomach dropped to the floor. Mr. Beck had one hand on the doorknob, like that was the only thing keeping it shut, before he slowly started descending the stairs, not taking his eyes off Peter.

His mouth fell open, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything, until Mr. Beck stopped in front of him, his expression unreadable. He barely managed to keep himself from crying just from the shame and embarrassment alone as he said, “Oh my god, I’m - Mr. Beck, I am so, _so_ sorry, I-I shouldn’t have touched your stuff, I’m sorry, that was so rude and I - I have no excuse, I just, I just really like your jacket and I was - I’m - ”

Mr. Beck regarded him closely, before his face softened. “Peter.” He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t sound mad. “It’s okay.”

“It - ” Peter nervously looked up at him, head lowered in shame, “it - it is?”

“It is,” he said, stepping closer and gently taking his jacket from him, then re-draping it over the back of his chair, nice and neat. “Don’t worry, I’m not mad.”

Peter’s whole body sort of...deflated. He slumped back against Mr. Beck’s desk, curling in on himself, slightly. Mr. Beck wasn’t mad, but Peter could never undo what he’d done, could never erase the picture Mr. Beck must’ve had of him, now. Mr. Beck said it was okay, but Peter still felt like he’d screwed everything up, that he’d ruined everything, and he felt crushed. He felt his eyes prickle with tears and he sniffled, he couldn’t help it.

“Hey,” Mr. Beck said gently, soothing. Peter went still when the man’s large hands wrapped around the thin knobs of his shoulders. “You’re all right. Come here.”

Peter didn’t get a chance to look up before Mr. Beck was pulling him into a hug.

He went stiff as a board at first, his brain a scrambled keyboard mash with no coherent thought except, _holy shit, Mr. Beck is hugging me._ But then he was pulled closer, flush against the taller man’s firm, broad chest, and Mr. Beck’s arms wrapped around his waist tightly, low on his body, and he leaned down so his face was resting in the crook of Peter’s neck, where he buried it.

Peter felt paralyzed. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, or his body, or anything, but Mr. Beck just embraced him tighter, quietly murmuring into his neck. “Shh, it’s alright, Peter. You’re alright,” even though Peter wasn’t really crying anymore.

Mr. Beck’s breath tickled against his neck and made him shiver, raising goosebumps over his skin instantly. The shock wore off and Peter kind of wanted to die. All he could smell was the comforting, pleasurable scent of Mr. Beck’s cologne, and how big and strong his arms felt caging him against his body, and the firmness of his chest beneath his shirt when Peter feebly grasped the material in a panicked fist, and the warmth and thrill of his breath ghosting over his neck.

He couldn’t help it - he hugged him back, clung to him, really, soaking up the physical contact for all he was worth. It felt good, but Peter was almost too anxious to even enjoy it at all. He tried to subtly shuffle his feet back a little, feeling that unwelcomed, familiar stir in his groin. He was pretty sure Mr. Beck knew about his crush on him, now. But there was a big difference between hugging someone’s jacket and grinding your erection against their thigh when they embrace you.

But was this really...a hug? It didn’t _feel_ like any hug Peter had ever been given, even though the logistics of it were the same. Nothing about it was different from a regular hug, yet somehow, everything was.

Peter swallowed nervously and mumbled against Mr. Beck’s chest, “You’re - you’re really not mad?”

He felt him smile against the bare skin of his neck, and it made him shiver again. “Why would I be mad, Pete?” he asked lowly, practically a whisper. Peter’s skin prickled like sandpaper.

“For...for touching your things without asking,” Peter said, confused, like he wasn’t sure that that was what Mr. Beck was really asking, “And…” _because I’m in love with you. Even though you’re my teacher._

“It’s just a jacket. I don’t mind,” Mr. Beck said, running his hands over Peter’s back. “Besides. It was pretty cute, if I’m being honest.”

Peter shuddered.

That...that _had_ to mean something. Right? Mr. Beck still hadn’t let him go, hadn’t even loosened his hold, and that was like the third or fourth time he had called Peter _cute._ And maybe it...maybe it could have been innocent, in a different situation with different people, but Peter was fairly certain it wasn’t, now. Every neuron firing in his brain was screaming, _Mr. Beck likes me back._

God. He didn’t even know what to think, anymore.

The bell rang suddenly, echoing loudly in the mostly-empty lab, and Mr. Beck sighed into his neck. “Damn. I have a class to teach in five minutes,” he griped.

It was hard not to cling tighter when Mr. Beck slowly unwrapped his arms and started to pull back. Peter kept his head low to hide his embarrassed, red face, but startled when Mr. Beck’s big hand gently crept up the side of his neck and cupped his cheek.

His face was tilted until he was staring up into the man’s dark blue eyes, leaning over him, God, he was so tall. Peter swallowed nervously and stared at the look on Mr. Beck’s face with rapt attention.

Mr. Beck’s thumb stroked his cheek. “Are you getting picked up after school again today?”

Peter nodded, speechless.

“Hm.” Mr. Beck pulled away, and Peter struggled not to chase after his touch. His skin felt so hot. He hoped he hadn’t been all gross and sweaty while Mr. Beck was holding him. “Well, then. Logically, I think the only option we have is if you sneak out tonight.”

Peter blinked, owlish. “Wh-what?”

Mr. Beck smiled, comforting and a little playful. “I could pick you up,” he suggested, lifting his hand to cup Peter’s chin, his thumb stroking just beneath his bottom lip. “After your dad falls asleep. We could head back to my place, spend some time together. I’ll have you home again before he wakes up.”

Peter gaped unintelligibly. Mr. Beck wanted to sneak him out. So they could spend time together, _alone._ So they could spend the _night_ together.

The thought of sneaking out made his stomach churn, but Peter nodded, too enthusiastic and too eager but Mr. Beck was smiling, so he didn’t care. “Yeah, I - I could do that. I’d, um. I’d really like that, Mr. Beck.”

“Good.” Mr. Beck grinned at him. “You’d better run along. I’ll see you in class, Peter.”

Nodding dumbly, Peter almost tripped on his own feet as he went back to his table and started gathering his things.

Mr. Beck looked like he wanted to say something else as Peter headed for the stairs, but the door opened and his other class started filing in, so he nodded for Peter to head out from behind his desk. Peter wordlessly obeyed, resolutely avoiding the other student’s eyes as he left the lab.


	9. A city on fire

Peter was a jumbled mess of excitement and nerves for the rest of the day.

Nothing helped, not even being in Robotics Lab class with the man himself. Mr. Beck didn’t act any different, which surprised Peter. But it also made sense - it wasn’t like he could exactly broadcast the fact that Peter was going to be sneaking out later to hang out with him. At his home. In the middle of the night. Alone.

He didn’t know which was worse; the idea that something was going to happen, or the idea that nothing would. He knew he was hoping for  _ something, _ but he had no idea what. Thoughts of curling up on Mr. Beck’s couch with him and...crawling into his lap, kissing him, the way he’d been dying to since he first saw him, plagued Peter’s mind. He couldn’t think about anything else; he just kept picturing Mr. Beck taking him home and somehow knowing every dirty, secret thought Peter had had since the day they met, knowing what Peter wanted even better than he knew himself, and then finally,  _ finally _ acting on it, like he’d been starving for it just as much…

But Mr. Beck didn’t act any different, save for the small, secretive smile he kept sending Peter’s way over the course of the class - especially at the end, when he took his usual seat at Peter’s table. Peter couldn’t keep his cool. He kept staring, wide-eyed and fidgety and so fucking lame, anxiously bouncing his knees and fumbling every single part and component he was trying to assemble. They couldn’t talk about it here. But not talking about it was kind of driving him insane.

And then, out of nowhere, Mr. Beck plainly said, “Try not to eat too big of a dinner tonight.” He smiled at the questioning look Peter gave him, and quietly added, “I doubt your dad is planning to even be home, much less cook you dinner, but try and only eat enough to tide you over, okay? I have something planned.”

Peter’s face burned from the intensity of the blush that crawled up his cheeks. He quickly checked to make sure no one was paying attention to them, and leaned forward so he could ask in almost a whisper, “You - you’re gonna make me dinner?” Shocked, like that was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him.

Mr. Beck looked incredibly fond, for some reason, and gave him a smirk that was somewhat playful but mostly promising. “It’s a surprise,” he said, and that didn’t help the anxiety-excitement raging in the pit of Peter’s stomach one bit.

When the bell rang, Mr. Beck went back to his desk and said goodbye to his other students as they left, like he always did. Peter lingered, terrified of being alone with his anticipation until the middle of the night, but Mr. Beck caught his gaze as he approached the desk and smiled, nodding him along.

“I’ll see you later, Peter,” he said, nonchalant, so only Peter could tell he really meant  _ later _ and not Monday. Peter couldn’t muster more than an anxious, “S-see you,” as he left, almost stumbling on the stairs, his face still burning and his legs still shaking.

He couldn’t remember the last time he was this excited. Giddiness and nervousness cascaded over him in alternating waves with every churn of his stomach. His mind was racing, he didn’t know how he was supposed to last the whole evening without spontaneously combusting into flames. His heart felt like it might burst right out of his chest with every errant beat of his heart.

He was so riled up, it hardly stung at all when he noticed Happy waiting to pick him up, alone in the car.

—

Peter tried everything he could think of to pass the time until his dad came home. He tried to work on his project, but he couldn’t concentrate well enough to put together the plans for its final stages. He tried to study for next week’s midterms, but it was all material he knew like the back of his hand, and reviewing the same six subjects over and over was only giving his imagination more room to roam, not less.

He didn’t end up feeling too hungry, even though he hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. Mr. Beck had given him permission to eat something light, but he was too hyped up on his own anticipation to feel anything beyond the simple awareness that his stomach was empty. He sprawled out on the floor in the living room and played video games for a while, just for something to do (besides overthink everything), but all he wanted to do was text Mr. Beck.

His phone sat heavy and thick in his pocket like a loaded gun. He kept feeling it phantom-vibrate against his thigh, and checking it every two minutes to see if Mr. Beck had texted him was slowly starting to drive him crazy.

But no sooner did he pull it from his pocket and lay it face-up on his lap did it vibrate, the screen lit up with Mr. Beck’s name. Peter grinned as he opened the text. The simple message of,  _ “Let me know when you’re ready to be picked up. I’ll meet you outside,” _ made the excitement bulldoze everything else. For a moment, he forgot about how worried he was about sneaking out for the first time, or the consequences if his dad caught him, or how nervous he felt to be alone with Mr. Beck in his  _ home, _ when just sitting next to him at school drove his mind into the gutter.

He texted back, assuring Mr. Beck he’d let him know when his dad was in bed, and although he wanted to keep the conversation going - wanted to know as much about tonight as he possibly could, so he could emotionally prepare - Mr. Beck said it was a surprise. So Peter dutifully kept trying to distract himself as the hours dragged on at an agonizing pace.

He switched to TV and sat, not really paying attention. He just liked the background noise, appreciated TV for that more than music - TV had talking, dialogue. It made it seem like people actually  _ lived _ here. He liked music, but playing it just to fill the silence just made him sad.

It was dark before long, and Peter watched as the neon glow of New York at night crept up on him, until it felt like their tower stood tall above a city on fire, all those lights gleaming off their windows from below.

By the time he heard the elevator doors sliding open, Peter had more restlessness about sneaking out than apprehension. For the first time in his life, he actually had somewhere he could go when he wanted to leave, and it felt like every second he spent sitting here was whittling away at that opportunity.

But the sound of voices - multiple, masculine and hushed - made him pause. Peter strained his ears, caught his dad’s voice quietly uttering snippets of things like  _ next time, _ and  _ so did I, _ and the almost unfamiliar sound of him chuckling, before the doors were sliding shut again. He couldn’t see the elevator from where he sat, but he stared off in its direction until his dad appeared in the archway, not quite sure what to expect when he saw him.

But his dad looked normal. Tired, maybe, but he had a small smile on his face that widened when he caught sight of Peter in front of the TV. “Hey, Pete. You’re up late,” he said, setting his keys and a StarkPad on the console table behind the sofa.

Peter shrugged. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t be a lie, so he lamely went with, “It’s Friday.”

“Technically Saturday, now.” His dad checked his watch and suppressed a yawn. “I’m probably gonna hit the hay pretty quick - don’t stay up too late, you’ll wreck your sleep schedule.”

Peter gave a short nod and tried not to feel bad about it. “Night, Dad.”

“Goodnight, Pete.”

He listened to his dad’s footsteps as he walked away, followed by the gentle shutting of his door, his phone already open in his hand. But he was too nervous to text Mr. Beck right away; he kept pretending to get up and grab stuff from the kitchen so he could peek down the hallway and make sure his dad’s light wasn’t on beneath his door. It was over half an hour later when he was finally, totally sure his dad was asleep, and almost an hour later when Mr. Beck told him he was almost at the tower.

Peter shoved his wallet, keys and phone into the pockets of his hoodie, then grabbed his dad’s keys from the console table and slipped his fob off its ring. There was a doorman stationed at the front doors, but no one was guarding the entrance to their private garage, so the only way Peter could sneak out of the tower was if he went through the parkade and used the fob to open the gate.

Luckily, Dad was big on privacy and always had been, so Peter managed to slip through the tower unseen. He couldn’t help the relieved, disbelieving laugh he had when finally stepped foot onto the street in front of the tower. He did it. He actually  _ snuck out. _ His legs felt like jelly, like he’d run a thousand-mile-long uphill marathon, but other than that, Peter felt incredible. He actually felt like a  _ teenager. _

The sound of tires slowly crunching to a stop had him turning and blinking in the bright headlights of Mr. Beck’s buick. Peter grinned and got into the passenger seat, the anticipation he’d been feeling all day finally releasing its grip on his chest. He was glad he was doing this. He didn’t even feel anxious, anymore. Not when he got into the car and saw Mr. Beck smiling at him, looking as happy to see him as Peter was.

“Hey, Peter. You ready?”

Peter returned Mr. Beck’s grin as he snapped his seatbelt into place. “Ready.”

—

Mr. Beck, it turned out, lived in Queens. Peter felt a stab of envy as they pulled in front of a nice but modest brownstone, the porch light on and illuminating a few potted plants Mr. Beck had on his railing. Peter had always loved Queens, though he and his dad rarely had any reason to drive through it. There was something he found undeniably charming about beautiful old homes like this one. They had always appealed to him, for some reason.

He followed Mr. Beck inside, and was immediately greeted with an incredible, mouth-watering smell. The swell of hunger was so strong, Peter’s stomach felt like it was suddenly tearing itself apart. “Wow. What smells so good?”

“Homemade mac and cheese,” Mr. Beck said, chuckling as Peter’s stomach rumbled, loudly. “You told me it was one of your favorites, and I wanted to spoil you a little bit.”

Mr. Beck took his shoes off at the door, which was weird, but. Okay. Peter followed his lead, toeing off his sneakers and then following him into the kitchen, when a thought hit him. “You left the oven on while you were gone?”

Mr. Beck smirked. “I know that’s a popular Hollywood trope, but it’s not actually that dangerous if you’re doing it intentionally. This oven has a slow-cooker setting, and I wanted you to have some hot food when you got here.”

Peter’s face burned so hot he could swear he heard his skin sizzling. “Is this the surprise?”

The smile didn’t fall from Mr. Beck’s face as he pulled the pan of mac and cheese out of the oven and turned it off. “Part of it,” he said, handing Peter a plate and a salad fork, of all things, to dish up. “Help yourself, let’s try and eat the whole pan if we can manage it. I’m not great with leftovers.”

Peter filled his entire plate, feeling less greedy about it when Mr. Beck filled his even more, somehow. He poured himself a glass of juice when Mr. Beck offered for him to and then he was being led out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the cozy, dimly-lit living room.

Or. It  _ would _ have been dimly-lit, ordinarily.

“Okay, this  _ definitely _ isn’t fire-safe, Mr. Beck.”

Mr. Beck laughed and waved his hand over one of the candles, and Peter gawked as his hand went entirely  _ through it  _ \- not the flame, but the candle stem itself. “Don’t worry, Pete. Perfectly safe.”

“Whoa,” Peter said, doing another complete scan of the room and realizing that all the tall, white candles Mr. Beck had lit on almost every surface - the end tables, the coffee table, the shelf beside the TV, the window ledge, the closed lid of the vintage record player (which was awesome) - all had the exact same thin, rectangular black base, clearly projecting the holographic candles. They were thinner and subtler than the ones his dad used. They were awesome. “That is so cool, Mr. Beck. But, uh, why not just use real candles…?”

“Well, because that  _ would _ have been unsafe,” Mr. Beck said, smiling as he set his plate on the coffee table and grabbed the remote for the TV, “and I wanted to have all this ready when you got here. Surprise, by the way - in case I didn’t make that clear. I think I owed you a real date, so. Dinner, mood lighting, and a show.” Mr. Beck turned the TV on, the screen already displaying the Netflix logo. “I was thinking Ferris Buehler’s Day Off.”

Peter was shocked speechless. He didn’t know what to say about...any of it. Mr. Beck called this a  _ date. _ And not in the casual, joking, kind-of-flirty way he had that time Peter stayed late after school. He called it a date like a  _ date- _ date, like a real, two-adults-who-are-dating-go-on-a-date, date.

He didn’t know what to say. He just stared, probably way too long, already making things awkward and weird after Mr. Beck had gone through so much trouble. Shit. So he swallowed the lump in his throat and mumbled, “That’s, um. That’s one of my favorites.” Just to say  _ something, _ so Mr. Beck wouldn’t think he was being rude, or worse.

“I know,” Mr. Beck chuckled, as light-hearted as always, like everything he said came so easily to him. Peter didn’t think he’d ever be able to be that articulate or confident speaking. Mr. Beck spoke like everything he said was rehearsed, and the envy Peter felt for that surprised him. “You told me about it before, remember? And then I teased you for liking movies as old as I am.”

Peter blushed. He’d grown up on those movies. His dad had shown them to him - they used to watch all the old classics together, back in the day. In a time that could have been from a previous life, it felt so long ago, now. “What - what can I say? I guess I just have a thing for stuff made in the 80’s.”

Mr. Beck looked up at him, then, for a moment that couldn’t possibly have been as long as it felt. Peter might have been embarrassed about his shameless flirting, if Mr. Beck didn’t look like he was fighting to stop himself from saying the thing he really wanted to. Peter wished that he would. He wished all the cards were on the table, finally, that they could say what this was and go from there.

But he could be wrong.

And if he was, he didn’t want to know about that.

Mr. Beck gestured for Peter to have a seat on the couch, and then - and he definitely  _ wasn’t _ imagining it - slid in close beside him, so that they were both sitting in the center of the couch, so close together their thighs were practically touching.

Peter’s brain turned to soup. He very intentionally held his plate firmly in his lap, hunching over it slightly, praying the bottom of his hoodie would cover up anything humiliating.

They started eating as Mr. Beck hit Play on the movie, and Peter - somehow - managed to force himself to relax and focus on eating and the TV screen and definitely  _ not _ Mr. Beck’s huge bicep occasionally squishing against his own. He did pretty well, for the most part. He even managed to finish his plate, and stay engrossed in the film decently well despite feeling like he and Mr. Beck were almost fused at the hip.

He did pretty well. And then Mr. Beck took both their plates and set them on the coffee table, leaned back into the couch, and draped his now-free arm over Peter’s shoulders.

Peter almost jumped from his seat. It was such a minor, almost innocent thing for him to do - hell, his dad used to do that too when he was younger, when they’d cuddle up on the couch to watch movies together - so it wasn’t like it was sexual or crossing a line but. It was. It wasn’t like it meant anything, but it totally, definitely  _ did. _ His cheeks burned apple-red when he felt Mr. Beck’s thumb idly stroking his arm through his sleeve, and that was it for Peter. He didn’t give himself a chance to overthink it.

He turned and looked up at Mr. Beck. Then, when their eyes met, he leaned up into the man’s space and kissed him.


	10. The promise

Peter’s hands curled into tight fists in the material of Mr. Beck’s shirt as he kissed him. He inhaled shakily through his nose as their lips made contact, his skin tingling with the overwhelming realization that he was _kissing Mr. Beck._ He wanted to pull the man closer, crawl into his lap and deepen the kiss until they were both panting for breath. But when Mr. Beck didn’t move, Peter pulled away, leaning back and nervously glancing up at him.

“Peter,” Mr. Beck said, his big hands wrapping around Peter’s shoulders. His face looked conflicted, and Peter’s heart would have sunk low into his stomach, except that the man’s eyes were lidded and dark with his blown-wide pupils, gazing at him... _hungrily._ “God, kid, you never cease to amaze me. You…” He licked his lips and swallowed, nervously. He was nervous. _Peter_ made _Mr. Beck_ nervous. “You sure you want this? Because I - I don’t want to take advantage, Peter. If you’re scared or not ready, that’s okay. I thought we’d wait until - ”

“No,” Peter said, barely daring to believe his ears. _I thought we’d wait._ Mr. Beck had thought about it. About him. About _kissing him._ “I swear, Mr. Beck, I’m ready. I want this. You - you don’t even know, I - I think about it literally _all_ the time. Please, I...I want to…”

Mr. Beck’s hands moved from his shoulders up to his throat, where they slowly crawled until they were cupping the sides of his face. His hands were so big, Peter felt the tips of his fingers gently massaging his scalp at the base of his skull. His head must have looked like it was the size of cantaloupe in Mr. Beck’s hands. Peter shuddered. He wished they would move lower, over the rest of his body, which was tingling from how badly it longed to be touched.

Mr. Beck sighed, sort of, a long, low exhale that made Peter’s heart thud painfully fast in his chest. They gazed into each other’s eyes before the man stroked his thumb over Peter’s cheek and said, “Come here.”

Peter moved like he was under water as Mr. Beck guided him _into his lap._ He sat timidly on the man’s thighs and let his hands trail over his chest up to his shoulders. His body felt so _firm,_ every inch of his torso was rock-hard and muscular. Peter wanted to pull his shirt off and kiss him everywhere.

He arched his back and gasped lightly when Mr. Beck’s hands ran up the back of his thighs, stopping just under his ass. He rocked back - he couldn’t stop himself - and moaned when those big hands grabbed him and held him still, then pulled him flush against Mr. Beck’s body, keeping him there. Another, louder, more desperate gasp spilled from his lips when the bulge of his clothed erection was pressed hard against... _Mr. Beck’s._

Peter stared down between their bodies, his mind going blank at the sight of the tent in Mr. Beck’s jeans. He was hard. Mr. Beck was hard, because of him. _Peter made Mr. Beck hard._

He glanced back up at Mr. Beck’s face and found him smiling, a small, amused grin that made the blush spread from Peter’s face all the way down his chest. Mr. Beck squeezed his ass - fuck, how the hell did that feel so _good?_ \- and rocked him in his lap again, grinding their dicks together in their pants. Peter moaned way too loudly and way too embarrassing and clung to Mr. Beck’s shoulders, wanting to hide his humiliated face.

His hips couldn’t stop moving. He felt like he might actually come in his pants any moment - he was overwhelmed and overstimulated and Mr. Beck smelled so freaking _good,_ and his big hands were squeezing his ass and guiding his jerky, shallow thrusts, his arms so strong Peter wasn’t sure he could stop moving even if he wanted to. Mr. Beck moved him so easily, Peter had a brief thought that it was almost like he was just an object the man was using to grind on his cock. Like Peter was just a toy.

“I’m - I’m gonna,” Peter moaned and buried his face in Mr. Beck’s neck, and then he was being held down in his lap, all movement stopped. Peter whined, a high, pathetic sound that completely mortified him as he tried to keep thrusting his hips, but as he suspected, Mr. Beck was too strong and his grip was unrelenting. Peter was forced to remain still, even as he desperately tried to rock his hips. Mr. Beck didn’t want him to move, so he couldn’t. He wasn’t letting him.

Peter panted into the man’s shoulder and felt his dick twitch in his pants. Something about Mr. Beck _not_ letting him come was kind of hot, and Peter definitely appreciated how ridiculously strong the man was, but wasn’t getting off kind of...the whole _point_ of sex? Why was he _stopping_ him??

Mr. Beck moved one of his hands from its place on Peter’s ass and snuggly wrapped it around his back, encircling his waist and keeping him in place. Peter half-heartedly tested the man’s hold on him and was...frustrated, aroused, and daunted all at once to discover that it didn’t matter if Mr. Beck was using two hands or just one - Peter was simply no match for him in terms of physical strength. If Mr. Beck wanted him to sit in his lap and suffer the pain of his squandered orgasm, Peter literally had no choice but to obey.

Mr. Beck’s other hand trailed up his spine from his ass and gently cupped the back of his head, then coaxed him to sit back so he could see his face. Mr. Beck looked... _amazing,_ hair kind of messy, cheeks a little dark and his pupils so wide his eyes looked black. Peter shivered as that hungry gaze roamed over his face. His dick _hurt._ He wanted to come so bad, he opened his mouth to beg.

But Mr. Beck licked his lips and said, “Peter, we gotta be smart about this.” He held him firm around the waist and the back of his neck, keeping him pinned in place like a bug under a microscope. Peter was drowning under his arousal and helplessness. “I never thought we were gonna move this fast. You have to understand, you’re not legal yet. And you’re my student. If anyone found out - ”

A shot of panic doused Peter in ice water. “No, no no, Mr. Beck - ” he interrupted frantically, his palms flat on the man’s broad, thick shoulders. “No, I won’t - I _swear,_ nobody’s gonna find out, not from me - I’d never tell _anybody._ ”

The concerned look deepened on the man’s face. He didn’t look convinced. Shit. _Shit shit shit._

“I know you want this, Peter, but maybe we should wait. It’d be safer if we took things slow. We can try again in a couple years - ”

“ _No,_ ” Peter begged, sounding pathetic and hating himself for it, but too scared at the thought of losing - this, all of it - to care. He didn’t know what he could say that would show Mr. Beck how serious he was, how committed. There was nothing he could do but plead and promise. “I’ll be careful. I’ll be so, _so_ careful, Mr. Beck, please. Please. I want - I want this. You. I want you. I promise no one will find out. I’ll make sure nobody _ever_ finds out, Mr. Beck, please…”

“They can’t know anything, Peter,” Mr. Beck said evenly. His thumb rubbed comforting circles into the back of Peter’s neck, and he relaxed, just the slightest bit. “No one can know that we text each other, or see other outside of school, or that you snuck out to come spend the night with me like this. Do you understand?”

 _You snuck out to come spend the night with me._ Peter felt like he was about to burst into flames. He nodded, embarrassingly eager, so desperate for Mr. Beck to believe him. “I understand, sir, I swear. No one will find out.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise,” Peter pled, crumbling under his fear that Mr. Beck wouldn’t think he was serious. “I promise, no one will find out. I _promise_.”

“Good.” The sudden shift in the man’s tone startled Peter. He glanced up, surprised by the gentle smile Mr. Beck wore. He sounded so... _pleased._ The hints of vulnerability in his voice disappeared so fast, Peter was left wondering if he imagined them. “I’m trusting you, Peter.”

“You can trust me,” Peter said, a little breathless. Mr. Beck’s smile widened and made delighted shivers run up and down Peter’s back. “I won’t let you down, I promise.”

“I know you won’t,” Mr. Beck said. His hand tightened on the back of Peter’s neck and brought their faces closer together. “Are you gonna be a good boy for me?”

Peter’s dick twitched inside his pants again. Liquid heat pooled low in his stomach, making his whole body feel like an overstimulated, exposed nerve. He nodded desperately, not knowing why the idea of Mr. Beck calling him a _good boy_ turned him on so much, but still reeling too hard from having his orgasm thwarted to care.

“Say it for me,” Mr. Beck murmured lowly. Their faces were so close now, his breath ghosted over Peter’s lips. If Peter leaned forward even slightly, they’d be kissing again. But Mr. Beck’s large hand on the back of his neck was a constant reminder that he wasn’t the one running the show here.

“I’m - I’m gonna be good,” he mumbled, a humiliated blush flaring up on his cheeks. Why didn’t anything he say sound half as sexy as Mr. Beck? Mr. Beck could literally read his grocery receipts aloud and it would be sexier than Peter’s best attempt at dirty-talk. “I’ll - I’ll be good for you. I promise.”

The hand on his neck tugged him forward, and Peter hardly had time to gasp before Mr. Beck’s mouth was on his, devouring him. It wasn’t the slow, timid kiss Peter gave him earlier - it was rough and frantic, and so fucking filthy Peter almost came in his boxers right there. Mr. Beck bucked his hips up against Peter’s, and Peter almost sobbed with joy as that incredible pressure massaged his dick just right. He rocked his hips eagerly, riding Mr. Beck’s lap and trying to keep up with the kiss at the same time.

But Mr. Beck had a hand on everything and was completely in control, the whole time. He kept Peter’s hips moving at just the right pace with the arm around his hips, and led the hungry, brutal kiss with his lips, tongue and teeth while keeping Peter’s head pinned in place with his hand. Peter couldn’t do much more than try to kiss back as best he could, and let his hips fall into the rhythm Mr. Beck’s had set, his smaller body simply taken along for the ride.

“Yeah,” Mr. Beck panted when he broke the kiss, both of them panting for breath. He grinded their hips together harder, the bulge in his pants so big now, he could rock Peter’s lower body up and down the length of it. “That’s right, Pete. Fuck. Such a good boy for me.”

Peter shuddered and felt the ghost of his lost orgasm sneaking up on him. He buried his face into Mr. Beck’s shoulder again and let himself be bounced in the man’s lap, completely focused on the way his cock was squeezed against Mr. Beck’s with every thrust. Pressure and overwhelming pleasure kept building up inside his balls, and his dick twitched, the inside of his boxers completely soaked before his climax even hit. “I’m - _oh!_ I’m - ”

“C’mon baby,” Mr. Beck said into his ear, his voice so deep and husky, he was practically growling every word. “That’s it, there’s my good boy. Come for me. Fuck, Peter, look at you. So fucking _good for me._ ”

A moan that was more like a shout left Peter’s lips as he came, his hips stuttering but forced to maintain the same thrusting pace by Mr. Beck’s strong arm. “Ha-ah, haaah,” Peter cried as he felt his dick soak the inside of his boxers and jeans with come, the most he’d ever come in his entire life. He went boneless, sagging in Mr. Beck’s lap as all semblance of strength left his body.

He winced when Mr. Beck thrust up against his spent dick again, and the next thing he knew, Peter was being turned until he was facing away from the man, Mr. Beck’s broad chest pressed against his back. Mr. Beck’s hand gripped his jaw and coaxed his head back until it was resting on Mr. Beck’s shoulder, and Peter moaned and shuddered when the man’s coarse facial hair scraped against the sensitive skin of his throat.

Now that he was turned around, Mr. Beck’s hard-on was grinding against his ass with every thrust, which felt - amazing and kind of terrifying, but in a really good way that Peter was too tired to fully appreciate, just yet. Mr. Beck’s dick felt even bigger against his ass than it did under his dick, and Peter couldn’t do anything but let the man rut against him, Mr. Beck’s arm still tight around his hips and the other still cupping the underside of his face.

“You feel that, baby?” Mr. Beck said against his throat, making Peter shiver. “Fuck - feel how hard I am? Look what you do to me, Pete. Fuck. Such a good boy. I can’t wait to give it to you.”

Peter whined as his own exhausted dick twitched inside the cooling, damp mess in his boxers. He rocked his hips in spite of himself, a swell of pride blooming in his chest at the loud, pleasured groan Mr. Beck made as he pressed his ass down against his hard-on. Peter did it again, falling into a rhythm with Mr. Beck’s thrusts, until the man was bouncing him so hard in his lap Peter was actually leaving his thighs with every thrust.

Mr. Beck turned Peter’s face towards him and kissed him, moaning into his mouth as his hips rocked in a frenzied, erratic motion, faster and faster until he pinned Peter down _hard_ in his lap with both hands, rolling his hips against his ass in a steadily-declining rhythm.

Both of them were panting, boneless messes by the time Mr. Beck’s thrusts came to a stop. He dropped his head against the back of the couch, Peter’s still tipped back against his shoulder. Peter’s body rose and fell in time with Mr. Beck’s exhausted breaths beneath him, and a wave of insecurity bulldozed over him at how small he suddenly felt, the difference in his and Mr. Beck’s sizes never as apparent as it was in that moment.

He was pulled from that thought when Mr. Beck pressed a series of breathless, affectionate kisses down the side of his face, over his jaw and throat, before slowly easing Peter off his lap. Peter collapsed against the couch, exhausted, satisfied and so fucking happy, there were tears prickling the corners of his eyes.

—

The sky was just beginning to lighten up by the time Mr. Beck's car rolled to a stop in front of the tower. Peter yawned in the passenger seat, more tired than he could remember being in his entire life, but buzzing with the sweetest kind of excited joy he had ever felt.

Mr. Beck’s hand gently wrapped around his and gave it a gentle squeeze. Peter squeezed back, wanting more than anything to lean in and give him a goodnight kiss, but knowing that that would be far too big of a risk. Instead, he smiled gratefully at the man and said, “Thanks for tonight, Mr. Beck. I...this was the best night of my entire life.”

“I’m glad, Peter.” Mr. Beck smiled at him, tenderly stroking his hand with the pad of his thumb. “I’m looking forward to giving you even better nights, in the future. As long as you make sure that no one finds out.”

Peter nodded, and squeezed Mr. Beck’s hand to hopefully show how much he meant it. “I promise.”

“Good.” Mr. Beck ducked his head out of sight of the world around them and gave the back of Peter’s hand a quick, chaste peck. “Then let’s do it again sometime. I’ll text you, okay?”

“Okay,” Peter grinned, so embarrassingly giddy, but too happy to even care. “Goodnight, Mr. Beck.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Peter’s face burned as he exited the car, and kept burning all the way through the parkade’s gate and down the long hallway to the penthouse’s private elevator. His body felt like happy, exhausted mush by the time he made it upstairs, and he was dragging his feet and grinning as he put his dad’s fob back on his keyring, carried himself down the hall to his bedroom and collapsed into bed. He tiredly shimmied out of his dirty clothes and was asleep before they even hit the floor.


	11. Pretending

Peter couldn’t remember ever being this happy.

Time seemed to be moving faster than normal, but he couldn’t even say he minded much. The weeks sped by so fast they all blended into each other, and that meant each weekend came just as fast, which was fine by Peter. Friday night had easily become his favorite part of the week.

Friday night was officially _date night._ Mr. Beck didn’t seem concerned at all about Peter sneaking out at night to see him, so every week without fail, Peter would quietly slip out of Stark Tower in the middle of the night to meet Mr. Beck, waiting for him by the curb.

It still made Peter feel kind of guilty, and more than a little anxious, if he was being honest. But the moment he got into Mr. Beck’s car, all those doubts faded away, like a haze of fog disappearing under the warmth of the morning sun. Peter didn’t worry about anything when they were together. Even his fears of his dad catching him were muted in between Mr. Beck picking him up and dropping him back off.

So, Friday nights with Mr. Beck were his favorite part of the week. But honestly, school had started to become a close second, lately. After two straight months of his dad - well, Happy, really, most of the time - driving him to and from school every day, he finally rescinded Peter’s public transport ban and allowed him to travel on his own again.

(Peter pretended to believe him, when his dad said it was because he’d gotten better at keeping his cellphone on him. He knew things at SI had gotten even more hectic these last few weeks, meaning his dad needed Happy’s help with more important things than chaperoning him around.)

Being allowed to get himself to and from school again meant Peter had that extra little leeway to spend time with Mr. Beck after class. It was only about ten minutes or so, and they had to be careful about what they said and did, but still. Peter was grateful for those couple of minutes, as insignificant as they seemed.

It was difficult sometimes, pretending he and Mr. Beck weren’t _seeing_ each other. Peter sometimes got lost in his head when he had nothing to do but just sit there, watching Mr. Beck teach at the front of the classroom, listening to the deep, smooth baritone of his voice as he talked. It was hard not to focus on the fact that that was his...his _boyfriend._ Peter had a boyfriend. And he was the hottest, coolest, smartest guy Peter had ever met in his _life._

It didn’t feel real ninety percent of the time. Peter couldn’t really figure out what Mr. Beck saw in him. He could literally date anyone he wanted - he could be dating supermodels if he wanted to. The insecurity was kind of maddening, right up until the moment he’d crawl into Mr. Beck’s lap on his couch, and Mr. Beck would take him by the back of the neck and kiss him so _hungrily,_ growling against his lips about how badly he wanted Peter, how _he_ drove _Mr. Beck_ crazy (and wasn’t _that_ totally backwards?), how gorgeous he thought Peter was. That was pretty much the only time Peter could actually bring himself to realize that this was _real,_ because every time, without fail, the thought that bulldozed through his head was, _holy shit, Mr. Beck likes me._

But Mr. Beck was a lot better at pretending they weren’t together than Peter was. Peter got it, it didn’t bother him or anything; Mr. Beck was the one who had everything at stake if anybody figured out they were dating, so he couldn’t look like he was giving Peter any special attention, despite how much Peter wished he could. Even after school, when Peter would linger before running to catch his train - they would only exchange casual pleasantries, and were always mindful of who was around them, careful not to seem like Mr. Beck was overly favoring Peter. Mr. Beck said they couldn’t arouse suspicions, and Peter understood that. It was a small price to pay for getting to be with him.

When the bell rang, Peter slowly packed his bag, stalling as much as he could as he watched his classmates eagerly head for the door, excited to start their weekends. He pretended to make his way to the front of the lab, careful not to seem like he was trying to be the last one out, though he definitely was. He kept up with the other students as they filed out, until the girl in front of him made it to the top of the stairs, then he subtly crept back down them so he could say goodbye to Mr. Beck, waiting for him at the bottom.

“We, um, we still on for tonight?” Peter asked hopefully, smiling up at Mr. Beck even from his place on the second tread of the staircase. Their height difference kind of sucked and was totally awesome all at once. Peter loved how tall Mr. Beck was, he was just also jealous of it. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” Mr. Beck said with a smile, a few degrees quieter than Peter had spoken. “Text me when you’re ready?”

Peter grinned and felt his cheeks flush. He loved the way Mr. Beck said that - something about it seemed so intimate. Domestic, almost. _This is my boyfriend,_ he thought to himself, giddy. He couldn’t keep the happiness he felt at bay. “Yeah, sounds - sounds good. See you later, Mr. Beck.”

Mr. Beck’s eyes darkened in that very familiar way that made Peter’s spine tingle, dark blue like the sea on a stormy night. He briefly glanced at the door at the top of the stairs and then thumbed across Peter’s hand on the railing, affectionate and full of promise. “See you later, Peter.”

Red-faced and thrumming with excitement, Peter turned and rushed up the stairs, burning under the intensity of Mr. Beck’s gaze the whole way up.

—

Peter bounced on his heels the whole way up to the penthouse. He slouched against the elevator wall, idly scrolling on his phone as he reread past text conversations he and Mr. Beck had shared. He really liked the man’s sense of humor - it was kind of dark, but always kind-spirited. He never failed to make him laugh.

He was so preoccupied with grinning down at his phone that he didn’t even notice his dad standing there when he stepped out of the elevator. “Hey, kiddo. How was school?”

Peter startled and gave his dad a look of surprise. “Uh,” he said intelligibly, taking in the casual way his dad was dressed, clearly not on his way to or from the office. “It was good. What are you doing home?”

Tony raised an eyebrow at him, crossing his arms over his faded Black Sabbath tee. He almost looked...hurt? “Pretty sure I live here, last time I checked,” he joked, before nodding at Peter’s phone in his hand. “Glad to see you’re getting some use out of that.”

“Yeah, well,” Peter shrugged lamely, pocketing the phone in his jeans. He didn’t want to draw any attention to it, or have his dad start asking questions about who he was texting - he didn’t know what he would say if he did. He hadn’t prepared an excuse or anything.

It had been two months, and he hadn’t needed to.

“So I was thinking,” Tony said, shifting on the balls of his feet. Peter couldn’t help but notice that he was fidgeting a lot. Was he, like, nervous about something? Had something happened? “How about we order dinner in tonight and do a Netflix binge? It’s been a while since we did something like that. I know we haven’t gotten to spend a lot of time together lately - ”

Peter barely stopped himself from scoffing.

“ - But I have some free time coming up, and I know you’re going to be pretty busy studying for exams soon and making summer plans - ”

Summer plans with who? With all those friends Peter didn’t have?

That thought gave him pause. Would Mr. Beck be making summer plans? Would they even get to see each other until the new semester started?

“ - But still, I need some good old-fashioned bonding time with my kid, now that all the chaos has died down from launching our new product line. So what do you say, Pete? You up for spending some time together?”

His first reaction was a deep, aching desire to say yes, to jump into his dad’s offer like it was a life-raft sent to save him from drowning. But his second reaction was a quiet, painful reminder tapping him on the shoulder, whispering into his ear: _He only wants to see you when it’s convenient for_ him. _He only wants to be your father when it’s on_ his _terms._

Peter’s hand clenched into fists. He wanted to spend time with his dad. But he felt stupid, like a needy, neglected dog crawling back to its owner after being chained up outside for weeks on end. He knew his dad loved him. He knew he was busy with work. But at this point, he honestly didn’t know why his dad even bothered to have him, if the responsibility was clearly such a burden.

But he didn’t have a reason to refuse, and there was still a giant, aching chasm in his chest that was yearning to spend that kind of quality time with his dad again, so he nodded and said, “Okay,” earning himself a warm, pleased smile that spread across his dad’s face.

They ended up ordering Thai food, and when it arrived they decided to sit down to eat on the couch so they could make their way through the Classics section on Netflix. His dad poured them both a glass of lemonade before they started, and Peter couldn’t help but feel like that highlighted just how unusual this whole thing was - his dad had had a glass of scotch with his dinner every night for as long as Peter could remember. But so much time had passed since the last time they did something like this, it almost felt expected that even the little things would be different.

Peter didn’t really...know how he felt, about any of it. There was a certain sense of contentedness, of comfort, in spending a Friday night with his dad like this, like they used to all the time. But there was also a shard of piercing ache. Would this really have been so hard, these past few months? Just the occasional night like this, even if it was only once a week? Would that really have been too much to ask?

He was surprised to realize that he felt...resentment. He was mad. He was mad that his dad was too busy to spend time with him like this, when Mr. Beck would literally lose sleep every week just so they could see each other. Mr. Beck would miss an entire night’s sleep just to spend time with him and his own dad wouldn’t even miss a meeting.

“Saw your report card,” Tony said, pulling him from his thoughts. They were halfway through the movie and had hardly said a word since their dinner arrived. “You’re doing really well, Pete. I’m really proud of you.”

Peter wanted to be happy that he had made his dad proud, but all he could think about was how his report card had been sitting on the kitchen counter for the last three weeks.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, trying to ignore the bitterness clawing its way up his throat. Part of him wanted to just be _happy,_ to take advantage of this chance to spend time with his dad and just enjoy it, but every hint of joy had a shadow, a second side of the coin. He shouldn’t have to take advantage of spending a Friday night hanging out with his dad. They shouldn’t be such a rarity in the first place. He shouldn’t have to guess if his dad went without noticing his report card for almost a month, or if they really just hadn’t seen each other in that long.

He shouldn’t feel overwhelmed with relief and gratitude, just because his dad finally wanted to spend time with him.

And still, when his dad relaxed against the back of the couch and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him against his side and cuddling him the way they always used to, Peter sunk into the embrace gratefully. He felt pathetic. He’d be sixteen in August, and here he was, eyes prickling because his dad had finally shown him the barest amount of affection. He was glad Mr. Beck wasn’t here to see him like this, chasing the carrot after the stick, like he’d warned him about so many times.

Peter closed his eyes and savored the closest thing to a hug his dad had given him in months. He felt relieved, and resentful, and grateful, and robbed, all at once. But more than anything, more than all that combined, he…

“I missed you,” he said, quietly. The prickling in his eyes was real wetness, now, so he kept them closed and didn’t look up, until seconds went by without his dad saying anything in response. Peter sat up slowly, saw his dad’s head reclined to the side, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.

Peter sighed, but the longing in his chest swelled and swallowed the rest of his emotions like a yawning abyss. He curled back up against his father’s side, pretended he hadn’t said anything, that their night together wasn’t over, not yet. He closed his eyes but felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and when he pulled it out, he saw how late it was before he saw Mr. Beck’s message: _“How’s it going?”_

He wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to lie to Mr. Beck, but...he was pretending the night wasn’t over. And he wasn’t ready to stop. Wiping his eyes, Peter quietly sniffled and guiltily replied, _“Sorry, I’m not sure if I can tonight. Dad is home and we’re binging Netflix.”_

He sat and stared at his phone for almost ten minutes before Mr. Beck answered, which wasn’t like him, but nothing about tonight was going the way Peter had become used to. _“Are you okay?”_

Peter smiled, frustrated that two fresh trails of tears had started running down his cheeks. Mr. Beck was honestly...perfect. He was just. There wasn’t even a word for it. Peter felt undeserving of even _knowing_ him, sometimes.

 _“Yeah. Just sorry I won’t get to see you. I was really excited,”_ he texted back, curling up tighter against his dad’s chest.

_“Let’s try again tomorrow night, I don’t think either of us have plans on Sunday, right?”_

_“I’d really like that. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”_

_“Good night, baby.”_

Blushing furiously at the pet name, Peter pocketed his phone again and brought his legs up on the couch so he could lie across it, pillowing his head on his dad’s legs. His dad shifted a little in his sleep, and the arm that was wrapped around Peter’s shoulders fell until his hand was resting on Peter’s head, like his dad was ruffling his hair, the way he always used to.

Peter closed his eyes, listened to the rhythmic sound of his dad breathing until he fell asleep.


	12. Laying a trap

When Mr. Beck picked him up the next night, Peter was beyond relieved that the man didn’t seem angry about him cancelling their plans the night before. Mr. Beck smiled at him as he got into the car, warm and pleased to see him, and gently held him by the back of the neck like he was about to pull him in for a kiss. “Hey, sweetheart. I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Peter said, flushing beet-red. “I’m really sorry about last night. I was really looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” Mr. Beck said as he pulled the car back onto 5th Avenue. “Thanks to you, my body is used to pulling weekly all-nighters, and nothing I did was able to change its mind,” he teased, then added, more seriously, “Though honestly, I think I was mostly just worried about you.”

Peter felt a stab of guilt spear right through his heart. Mr. Beck had been up all night, because of him? Worrying about him?

“I’m sorry,” he said again. Then, because he couldn’t help his curiosity, “You were worried?”

Mr. Beck sighed, and something about it struck Peter in a painfully familiar, almost intimate sort of way. There was something almost paternal about that sigh; an adult mulling over what can and should be said in front of a child. He’d heard his dad sigh just like that countless times over the years. It was one of the drawbacks of having as many questions as Peter did - sometimes, adults just didn’t know what to say.

“Do you know what people mean when they talk about ‘the cycle of abuse,’ Peter?”

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t know how to respond. He could guess, probably, but - what did that have to do with anything? Where had that come from? He glanced up nervously at Mr. Beck, but the man’s eyes were resolutely trained on the road in front of them, the bright city lights lighting up his grimly-set face in the dark.

“I’m not sure,” he said finally, his voice coming out much smaller than he meant for it to.

“They call it a cycle because a lot of the time, it’s not exactly all bad,” Mr. Beck said. “In fact, in a lot of cases, sometimes things are really good _most_ of the time. You’ll hear women talk about how their husbands just have ‘bad days,’ but for the other six days of the week, they’re as sweet as can be.”

Anxiety burned Peter’s stomach like he had swallowed poison. He shrunk into the passenger seat and kept very still, like if he didn’t move, the bad things that were coming wouldn’t touch him.

“But the things is, Peter, is that all of that is just manipulation. It’s how abusers guilt and convince their victims into staying with them. They’ll lie to themselves and say, _he only hits me when I make him mad, if I don’t make him mad, he’s nice to me,_ and that’s exactly what their abusers want. They’ll be kind to their victims and tell them they love them, knowing exactly what it is they want to hear, perfectly playing the part - but all they’re doing is laying a trap. It’s not _real,_ Peter.”

Peter was mortified to realize his eyes were damp, and all he could think of to say was, “My dad’s never hit me.”

Mr. Beck’s hand was on his in an instant, gently squeezing it, his voice soft and sympathetic and comforting. “Sweetheart, he doesn’t _have_ to. It’s bad enough that he leaves you alone for weeks on end, and then shows up out of the blue to shower you with a few measly hours of attention before disappearing again. That’s the cycle. You, stuck waiting around for him for the rest of your life, giving him credit for every little morsel he gives you, when he’s the one starving you in the first place.”

His hands closed into tight fists in his lap. He didn’t...he didn’t want to hear this. He wanted to tell Mr. Beck he was wrong, that his dad would never do such a thing.

But then he thought about waking up this morning, alone on the couch, one of the throw blankets draped over him. How he had felt so warm and hopeful that maybe things really were going to start changing between him and his dad, only to realize he wasn’t home. How he had spent the day waiting for him to come back, but his dad didn’t return until almost midnight and immediately went to bed, after only giving Peter a short greeting as he went by. How badly that had stung, though he should have been used to it by now.

“But why - ” Peter started to ask, but he had to pause, swallowing thickly to hide the way his voice broke, “ - why would he...do that? He’s not...my dad doesn’t like hurting people. So why would he want to - ”

“It’s not always about hurting people, Pete,” he said sadly. “Sometimes it’s just about the insecurity. The loneliness. You’re almost an adult, now. You’re not always going to be waiting around for him to come home, needing him, the way you did when you were little. Parents with Narcissistic Personality Disorder have a really hard time watching their kids grow up, because growing up means leaving them. They’ll restrict their kids’ freedoms, hover, be controlling, but ultimately always put themselves first. And if they start to sense you’re pulling away, well, then...just like tonight, there he was. Wanting to pretend everything was fine, that all your emotional and social needs were met.”

Peter couldn’t help it; he was crying, now. He clenched his jaw tightly shut to keep himself quiet, hoping Mr. Beck wouldn’t notice, but the way the man took his hand again and gently rubbed along his knuckles made Peter think he was well aware. Embarrassed and overwhelmed, Peter turned and pretended to watch the scenery beyond the passenger side window, watching as the city slowly changed into a more residential setting as they drove.

He didn’t want it to be true. It felt like it couldn’t be. But didn’t Mr. Beck just say that that was part of it? How would Peter know? Everything his dad had and hadn’t done over the last several months matched almost perfectly with the scenario Mr. Beck had just described. What if Peter’s doubts were actually just more proof that he was right? And if he _was_ right, then what was Peter supposed to do?

“Hey,” Mr. Beck said, when Peter took a long, watery breath. “Peter, sweetheart, it’s going to be okay. You’ll see. You’re not going through this alone.” He pulled the car into his driveway and parked it, then immediately turned so he could wrap Peter up in a warm, tight hug. “I’m right here with you. Everything’s going to be all right.”

It felt pathetic, and childish, but Peter couldn’t stop himself from burying his face into Mr. Beck’s shoulder and whimpering, “Promise?” trying so hard not to ruin the man’s dress shirt by sniveling all over it. At least Mr. Beck wasn’t wearing his usual red jacket that Peter loved - although June in New York wasn’t exactly jacket weather.

“Yeah, baby, I promise,” Mr. Beck said lowly, his facial hair tickling Peter’s neck and jaw, his breath gently ghosting over his bare skin. Peter shivered, and felt Mr. Beck smile against his neck. “I promise. And when have I ever lied to you? Trust me. It’s going to be okay.”

He nodded into Mr. Beck’s shoulder, and let himself be pulled back so the man could wipe the tears from his cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. He closed his eyes, let himself enjoy the feeling of Mr. Beck’s big, soft hands gently cupping his face, caressing his cheeks lovingly.

Let himself be pulled in for a kiss. So soft and sweet it made his eyes sting. Mr. Beck shushed him even as he moved his lips against Peter’s, coaxing his mouth open, deepening the kiss into something painfully romantic. Peter didn’t want to wrinkle the man’s shirt, so he held on to Mr. Beck’s bare forearms, kissing him back and feeling the heat spreading to his cheeks slowly dry his tears.

His lips were wet and tingling by the time Mr. Beck pulled back. Mr. Beck gazed at him hungrily in the dark, his face shadowed except for the glare of streetlights that only accentuated the heated look in his eyes. He gave Peter one last quick peck on the lips, then said, “Let’s get you inside.”

Peter could only nod, fast and eager, earning a pleased smile from the other man and a flurry of excited pride fluttering deep in his stomach.

—

When Mr. Beck finally pulled him in for another kiss, Peter actually groaned with relief. The comfort had been nice - he enjoyed cuddling together, curled up on Mr. Beck’s couch, a mug of hot chocolate warm in his palms and a light-hearted movie playing in front of them - but his skin had been itching to be touched, spurred on by Mr. Beck’s large hand gently stroking down his arm. By the time the man finally took his empty cup and pressed their lips together, Peter was practically buzzing with _want._

“Somebody’s eager,” Mr. Beck chuckled when Peter bucked his hips up against his hard stomach. He had pressed Peter down on his back and settled between his legs, keeping them at eye-level so he could continue to kiss him at his leisure, but the difference in their heights made it so that Peter’s already-aching dick was rubbing incessantly against Mr. Beck’s toned abs. Which was. Well. Fucking _awesome._

Peter actually _whined_ when Mr. Beck rocked against him, that delicious pressure sending waves of pleasure right up into his skull. His dick was straining the front of his jeans and it was equal parts incredible and uncomfortable - he longed for relief but at the same time, he wanted more pressure, wanted it tighter, wanted to rut against Mr. Beck’s stomach as fast as his hips could go.

Mr. Beck laughed at him again and tilted his head to mouth at his neck. Peter moaned embarrassingly loudly and writhed under the larger man’s heavy body, loving how all that weight held him down. The man had to be at _least_ two-hundred pounds of solid muscle. The only thing stronger than Peter’s stab of envy was the thrill of how mind-blowingly hot he was.

“Poor thing,” Mr. Beck murmured, his soft lips moving against Peter’s cheek as he spoke. Peter shivered, helpless. “You’ve had a pretty long day. Just relax and let me take care of you.”

He whimpered in protest as Mr. Beck lifted himself off his body, still pressing him down on the couch but now leaving enough space between them to reach down and undo Peter’s belt. They hadn’t really done much more than make out and touch each other over their clothes since that first night. Peter wanted to, but he understood that Mr. Beck was the one who had everything to lose, here. It was only fair that he should be the one to decide how fast they moved. Besides, Peter didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, or, like, come across as needy or anything. He wanted Mr. Beck to think he could be patient. That he was chill. That he wasn’t _dying_ to feel the man’s hand on his dick.

But that dream kind of died when Mr. Beck pulled his jeans open, reached inside them and palmed his hard-on through his boxers, because Peter fucking _yelled._

“Shh, shh-shh,” Mr. Beck shushed him, laughing, like he found Peter endlessly endearing. “Neighbors, baby. You gotta be quiet for me.”

“S - ngh, _mhnn,_ s-sorry, sir…”

“It’s all right,” Mr. Beck said, kissing his temple. His hand was still cupping Peter’s dick and squeezing it _just right,_ though a little too softly. “I wish you could be as loud as you wanted. Someday I’ll take you somewhere nobody can hear us, just you and me, and have you _screaming_ for it. You have no idea, Peter. I’m going to make you feel so good.”

 _You are, you are, you do,_ Peter wanted to say, but he couldn’t get any words past the hungry moans falling from his lips. He bit the back of his hand to keep himself quiet and thrusted his hips up into Mr. Beck’s grasp, his mind going blank under the onslaught of pleasure. He could feel his orgasm stampeding toward him like a runaway train, obliterating every other thought and need in its path.

But Mr. Beck pulled further back, took his hand away, leaving Peter rutting against nothing. He whined, indignant, pathetic, so fucking desperate - but before he could even beg, the man’s hands were sliding under the hem of his jeans and boxers and pulling them both down his thighs.

He hissed as cold air hit his exposed skin, tickling his heated flesh. Mr. Beck watched him, his eyes dark and ravenous as he gazed at Peter’s half-naked body.

“Look at you,” he said, voice as low as a murmur. “So fucking pretty.”

His faced heated up so badly his ears burned. For a second, he kind of wanted to close his legs, because he felt like he was going to combust under the intensity of Mr. Beck’s hungry stare. But he didn’t. He wanted the man to touch him. Even more than the shyness and the embarrassment and the insecurity, he wanted to feel Mr. Beck’s hands on him again.

What he got instead was _so_ much better.

Mr. Beck coaxed him further up the couch until he was half-sitting, the armrest pressed between his shoulder blades. Peter watched, almost dizzy with arousal, as the man laid himself flat on the couch, Peter’s legs spread open on either side of Mr. Beck’s shoulders. It was kind of mortifying, having someone else so close to his privates, especially with how intensely Mr. Beck was gazing at him. But every puff of breath the man exhaled ghosted over his aching, weeping dick and made his eyes roll back in his head, so he let himself be moved and maneuvered every which way Mr. Beck wanted.

“It’s like I made you,” Mr. Beck sighed, his cool breath making Peter shudder as it ran over his dick. “Like I designed you in my lab and built you just for me. God, you’re perfect, Peter. My perfect baby boy.”

Peter arched his back, overwhelmed by the praise being heaped onto him. No one had ever spoken to or about him like that before. It made his head spin from how alien and amazing it was all at once.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” He could hear the grin in the man’s voice, and jerked when Mr. Beck’s coarse facial hair brushed against his sensitive inner thigh. “You like the sound of that, baby? Like the thought of being mine?”

“Yes, _yes,_ ” Peter panted, God, Mr. Beck’s mouth was _so_ close to his dick. If he just raised his hips up a little more, they’d touch, and that was the only thing Peter could think about. “Yes, wanna - wanna be yours.”

“Oh, Peter.” Mr. Beck’s soft voice ran through him like a knife. “You already are.”

And then there was wet heat wrapped all around his dick and _sucking_. Peter’s eyes flew open, nearly kneeing Mr. Beck in the side of the face in his shock, but the man’s large hand grabbed it and held it down, keeping his legs open, his thumb and forefinger wrapping around Peter’s calf like the force of his kick was insignificant to him.

“ _Haa,_ mm-nngh, ah- _aah,_ ” Peter moaned, incoherently, trying harder than he’s ever tried at anything in his life not to thrust his hips desperately up into Mr. Beck’s mouth. The man let go of his leg and held him down easily by the hips, slowing sucking up and down his cock at an absolutely torturous pace, and it was the best thing Peter had ever felt in his entire life. It felt so good, he trembled against the armrest of the couch and squeezed his eyes shut to keep the overstimulated tears from falling.

“Mr. Beck, I’m, I’m gonna... _I’m gonna_ \- ” he tried to warn, but he couldn’t control what he was saying, his mouth had a mind of its own. Mr. Beck doubled down, swallowing him all the way to the back of his throat and sucking hard enough to make Peter’s vision white out, before he abruptly pulled back, letting Peter’s dick slip free of his mouth and slap wetly against his stomach in a way that sort of hurt.

Humiliatingly, Peter couldn’t stop moving his hips, chasing after that indescribable pleasure that had been so cruelly ripped away from him. He couldn’t even make his mouth work enough to ask Mr. Beck why he stopped or beg him to continue; all he could do was whine and whimper and writhe as the man grinned down at him.

“You’re a bit of a hair-trigger, huh Pete?” Mr. Beck teased him, gently kissing his inner thigh, his dark blue eyes boring into him. “Not gonna let you get away with that today.”

“Please - ” Peter tried to beg, but then Mr. Beck’s mouth was latching onto him, sucking the sensitive skin of his thigh until it bloomed bright red. Peter let out a garbled sound halfway between a moan and a gasp - Mr. Beck’s mouth felt good, but the sucking - the sucking kind of hurt.

And then there was teeth, and that actually...that actually kind of _really_ hurt.

Peter whined, trying to make his brain and his mouth line up properly to say something. His dick was still twitching happily against his stomach, wet from Mr. Beck’s mouth and steadily leaking pre-come into a little pool. It felt - kind of good, sort of, in a way, but - Mr. Beck seemed almost to be focusing _just_ on the most sensitive areas between Peter legs, like he knew, somehow.

He looked down at himself, saw his thighs mottled in red splotches that would undoubtedly be purple bruises come tomorrow. He whimpered as Mr. Beck sunk his teeth in a little deeper, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to leave a mark and send a wave of pain shooting up Peter’s whole chest. He bit the back of his fist and tried to arch away from the man’s mouth, but Mr. Beck had him by the hips and was relentless, biting and sucking his skin until it looked like he’d been beaten.

He wanted to say something, but...Mr. Beck was moaning against his skin, his eyes closed in a totally blissed-out expression, like he’d been waiting to do this to Peter for a really long time. Maybe this was just, like, a kink for him, or something. Maybe he liked the taste of the body-wash Peter used in the shower before he got picked up. He wanted to say something, but Mr. Beck looked like he was enjoying himself, and that...that mattered more to him. He wanted Mr. Beck to feel good, too. He wanted him to like him.

So he whimpered into his fist and sunk his teeth into the back of his hand every time Mr. Beck did the same to his thighs, pushing away his urge to cry out whenever another painful bruise was sucked into his sensitive skin. He tried to focus on the way his dick bobbed against his stomach each time Mr. Beck shifted him to get a better angle, how good it felt when Mr. Beck first sucked him into his mouth.

Finally, Mr. Beck pulled his mouth from Peter’s flesh with a loud, wet _pop_ that made Peter yelp in spite of himself. The man grinned at him, looking almost wild as he soothingly rubbed Peter’s bruised thighs.

“So good, Pete. _Fuck,_ so good for me,” he said, almost rambling. He placed a trail of soft kisses over the tender flesh. Some of the bruises were so swollen, they raised off Peter’s skin like welts. “Such a good boy. My good boy. All mine.”

“Yours,” Peter agreed, gasping in pleasure as Mr. Beck _finally_ took his dick back into his mouth again. “Yours,” he repeated, waves of pleasure coursing through him when Mr. Beck moaned around him, sucking just that little bit harder, as if in reward. Peter cried out and arched his back as he came, mindless, gasping out a strangled, “Y- _yours,_ ” because all he knew in that moment was that he wanted to be.


	13. All the time in the world

Mr. Beck had dropped him off just before sun-up, and like usual, Peter had gone straight to bed after returning his dad’s fob to his keyring.

He’d taken special care sliding his jeans down his legs and replacing them with the baggiest pair of sweatpants he owned. His skin stung, constant but with waves of pain, like every beat of his heart made the bruises throb. They were only a few hours old, but already, the bright red splotches blotting all over his upper legs were beginning to darken.

Lying down to go to sleep kind of sucked. The only position he could lay in that didn’t put pressure on his bruises was flat on his back, with his legs spread enough that his swollen inner thighs wouldn’t touch. Peter usually slept curled up, so despite being exhausted from being up all night with Mr. Beck, the sun had fully risen by the time he was able to fall asleep.

So needless to say, he wasn’t thrilled about being gently shook awake hardly two hours later.

“Pete. Kiddo. Hey, sleeping beauty. You’re sleeping your whole Sunday away.”

With a groan, Peter squinted up at his dad, feeling equal parts irritated at being woken up and confused at the same time. How long had it been since his dad had woken him up like this? Maybe it was because he was still half-asleep, but Peter genuinely couldn’t remember the last time. “Dad? Wha’s’wrong?”

His dad grinned at him, still leaning over his bed with one hand on his shoulder. “Nothing’s wrong, sleepyhead. You’ve just been sleeping all morning and seriously disrupting all the fun father-son-bonding plans I made. So get up, get dressed. We’re going out for lunch and then hitting the aquarium.”

Peter groaned again and pulled the edge of his comforter up over his head. Of _course_ his dad wanted to go to Peter’s favorite place on Earth on a day when he’d had almost no sleep and his legs were throbbing like he’d stepped on a wasp’s nest. “But ‘m _tired,_ ” he whined.

“Hi tired, I’m about to dump a bucket of water on your head. Come on, up you get.”

He listened as his dad left the room, and gave himself another ten seconds of blissful comfort before he gingerly sat up. Peter winced as his legs shifted, and briefly checked that the open door was clear before peeking under his blanket at his aching thighs.

As he suspected, they looked pretty bad. Mr. Beck had clearly layered his love-bites on top of each other, sucking bruises onto bruises until some of them were as big as Peter’s hands. No wonder they hurt so bad. Peter folded his legs to try and start sliding out of bed and couldn’t stop the whimper that left his mouth as pain radiated through his thighs. The bruises were so bad, even the parts of Peter’s thighs that _weren’t_ marked had swelled up.

The idea of walking around the aquarium all day with his legs in this much pain kind of made Peter sick to his stomach. He’d never be able to hide the limp from his dad. And besides, all his muscles had that achy, overused exhaustion to them from his lack of sleep. His eyes left like he had glue clinging to his lashes, threatening to weld them shut with every blink. He didn’t want to leave the penthouse like this. He didn’t even want to leave his bed.

 _He doesn’t care what you want,_ his mind whispered. Peter hung his head in his hands and tried to gather the nerve to get up and get dressed. But before he could manage it, his dad appeared in his doorway again.

“Wow, _somebody_ was up way later than he should have been. Come on, Pete, does staying in bed really sound more fun than spending the day with your old man? You love the aquarium. And you’re a pretty big fan of me too, if I say so myself.”

His dad sighed when Peter collapsed back on his bed, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. He was so freaking tired, and sore, and not really in the mood for his dad’s jokes, right now.

He heard his dad move away from the door, and then the bed was dipping beside him. His dad’s warm hand gently brushed his curls back from his forehead, and Peter moved his hands away from his face and blinked up at him, tiredly. Spending the day together in the city with his dad sounded...amazing, if he didn’t feel like shit right now. It sounded like a lot of fun. It sounded…

_Too good to be true._

His dad was smiling at him again, softer now. Almost sad, somehow. He couldn’t remember the last time his dad looked at him so softly like this.

“Are you mad about yesterday?” he finally asked, moving his hand from Peter’s hair into his lap, where it fidgeted with the other one. “I know I said I had some free time coming up and then disappeared all day, and I’m sorry if that sent you some mixed signals. I had actually planned to do the aquarium with you yesterday, initially, but something came up at work and they needed my help. It was so late by the time we got everything up and running again, I figured, go home and get some sleep and do the aquarium tomorrow.” His smile widened, somewhat, growing a little more fond as he gazed down at him. “Apparently you didn’t get the memo.”

Peter couldn’t help feeling slightly scandalized. How was _he_ supposed to know his dad wanted to make plans with him? He hadn’t said anything about it to him on Friday. What would he have done if Peter told him he already had plans of his own? For some reason, the thought of that made his stomach roil with anxiety.

His mind drifted back to last night, in Mr. Beck’s car. How cold and sick he felt when the man told him, _You’re not always going to be waiting around for him to come home, needing him, the way you did when you were little._ He wanted to give his dad the benefit of the doubt. He wanted to believe that his dad just innocently assumed he had nothing else going on, because he knew Peter didn’t exactly have a bustling social life. But part of him...part of him couldn’t help but fear that maybe Mr. Beck was right. Maybe, to some extent, his dad... _expected_ that of him.

Would his dad be upset with him if, one day, Peter stopped waiting around at home for him like he’d always done?

He was interrupted from that thought when something his dad had said clicked in his brain. He gazed sleepily up at him and curiously asked, “What do you mean, ‘by the time we got everything up and running’? What happened?”

His dad sighed again, like even just _talking_ about it instantly stressed him out. “Some dingbat hacked our servers Friday night,” he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to thwart an oncoming headache. “They tried to leak a ton of classified personnel and user-base info. _Almost_ succeeded - but I rounded up the team in time and managed to prevent an eighty-billion-dollar lawsuit before it happened, so. Yay me.”

“Oh,” Peter said, his stomach sinking with guilt. He had sort of...assumed the worst, when his dad said something came up at work. Not that he was _lying,_ necessarily, but...he left first thing in the morning and only came back to go to bed. Peter couldn’t help but feel like the isolation was intentional, especially after what Mr. Beck told him.

That thought made Peter’s blood run a degree colder. Was _this_ part of ‘the cycle,’ too? Was this just another piece of a bigger pattern of neglect that Peter still couldn’t fully recognize? Was he being manipulated, just like Mr. Beck said?

He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away, into his pillow. His head had started to throb. He didn’t want to think about mind-games and ulterior motives and _abuse._ He just wanted to sleep. He wanted his legs to stop throbbing and his dad to turn off his bedroom light and leave him alone.

His bottom lip started to quiver, so badly he had to bite down on it to make it stop.

He didn’t think the day would ever come that he would want his dad to leave him alone, but here he was.

“If you’re not up for going to the aquarium today, that’s all right. We can go another time, kiddo. Summer’s coming up - we’ll have all the time in the world to spend in the city together once school lets out.”

His dad’s hand returned to his hair, and Peter leaned into the comforting touch, in spite of himself.

“We can just hang around here and relax, if you want. But you shouldn’t go back to sleep - you’ll be up all night if you sleep any later than this.”

A quiet, sleepy moan was all the response Peter could give. The throbbing ache from his thighs was making his head feel floaty, and the lack of sleep wasn’t helping. He didn’t think he could open his eyes again if his life depended on it.

His dad waited a moment longer, and then the hand was gone along with the dip in his bed. Neither of them said anything as his dad quietly left the room, shutting the light off overhead as he did.

—

The bruises on his thighs hurt almost constantly for ten straight days. By day twelve, they were fine if Peter didn’t touch them, most of the time. The only exception was when he had to climb all those stairs to get in and out of Robotics Lab. Those first few days made Peter’s eyes water from the pain, but Mr. Beck always looked up at him from down below and smiled, and when he did, Peter couldn’t help but remember the look on the man’s face, the night he gave them to him - eyes closed, cheeks flushed, that expression of total bliss - and somehow, that helped. Peter almost felt kind of...good, when Mr. Beck smiled at him for shouldering the pain. It made him feel proud. He liked making Mr. Beck happy.

By day twelve, the bruises were yellowish-green and sensitive to the touch, but not really a hindrance, anymore. Peter was grateful they had finally started to heal, but...he was also kind of nervous, about tonight. It was Friday, and Mr. Beck had confirmed earlier in class that he’d be picking him up as usual. They hadn’t been able to see each other last weekend - Mr. Beck had had an appointment out of state, and had been gone all weekend - so although Peter was stoked for date night, he was also...kind of...on edge.

He didn’t really know what Mr. Beck would say when he saw how bad the bruises were. Would he be...turned off by them? They didn’t look good, even for bruises. They made both of his legs from the knees-up look blotchy and ugly. He wouldn’t blame Mr. Beck if he didn’t like them. Or, worse than that, would he feel guilty? Maybe he hadn’t meant for them to be as dark or last as long as they did. What if he didn’t want to touch Peter anymore because of how easily he bruised? Peter didn’t know how he’d even handle that.

It made him feel ashamed, but, the thing he was most nervous about was...what if Mr. Beck wanted to do it again? He wasn’t - he wasn’t _scared_ or anything, he knew the man wouldn’t hurt him, he knew he’d stop if Peter asked, but - he didn’t want to have to ask him to stop. He wanted Mr. Beck to think Peter could handle anything he threw at him, that he was on his level, that he was grown up and mature enough to take things _further._ Wimping out on something Mr. Beck clearly really enjoyed would be...the opposite of that.

But Peter didn’t think he could handle it again, if Mr. Beck tried to suck more hickies into the barely-healed bruises on his thighs. He’d only just regained the ability to sleep on his side again, and while they didn’t bother him anymore, they still hurt badly enough to the touch that the thought of Mr. Beck biting them the way he did two weeks ago made Peter’s head swim. He wanted to please the other man. He wanted Mr. Beck to think he was up for anything. But Peter would probably burst into tears if Mr. Beck bit into the tender bruises on his thighs tonight.

And the fear of that set him on edge, made him kind of jumpy and high-strung. Even his dad noticed, since tonight was one of the few nights he’d been able to sneak away from work to have dinner with him after school. He claimed that the cyber-attack on SI’s servers meant a complete overhaul of their system was due, and that that was taking up most of his time, now, but Peter was so used to the excuses, they rolled right over him like morning fog.

And Mr. Beck _definitely_ noticed, when he picked him up later that night. “You all right, Pete? You seem kind of anxious,” he had said when Peter got into the car, and the soft, comforting tone of his voice doused his anxiety from scorching flames to glowing embers. It bolstered Peter, knowing Mr. Beck was concerned about him, that he cared. That if Peter chickened out, that would be okay, too. It gave him the strength to tough it out, and he had smiled and said, “I’m just glad to see you, is all.”

“Yeah, so am I,” Mr. Beck grinned. “You have no idea how hellish it is to have to go two whole weeks without kissing you.”

Peter laughed. “I have some idea.”

By the time they arrived at Mr. Beck’s house, the sexual tension between them was so overpowering, Peter’s hands were shaking. He almost stepped on Mr. Beck’s heels as he eagerly followed him inside, and as soon as the door was shut, Mr. Beck was rounding on him and crowding him against it, locked in place by the man’s larger body and his thick arms, his lips caught in a searing kiss that devoured him.

Mr. Beck kissed him like a starving man given a feast. Peter was helpless just trying to keep up, but that only made the heat in his gut swell all the sweeter. He keened into the older man’s mouth and gasped loudly as two large hands suddenly wrapped around the backs of his knees and pulled them up, until Peter got the message and jumped to wrap his legs around Mr. Beck’s waist, their mouths locked together in a kiss, his arms tight around the man’s neck, his ass pleasantly groped in both of Mr. Beck’s large hands.

And then he was being carried, easily like he weighed nothing, all the way to the living room where Mr. Beck sat in the middle of the couch, keeping Peter straddling his lap. Peter let out a moan into the man’s mouth, which quickly became a gasp of pain as Mr. Beck trailed his hands from Peter’s ass to his thighs, rubbing right over top of his bruises.

Mr. Beck pulled back instantly, his near-black blue eyes scanning Peter’s face. “Baby, what? Did I hurt you?”

Peter shook his head, tried to mumble an apology, but his lips were tingling and swollen from how hard he’d just been kissed. “S’just - just my uhm, my thighs, they’re still sensitive. From the hickies. I’m okay, I swear I’m okay.”

The man’s eyebrows drew together in concern, and he turned to lay Peter down along the length of the couch on his back. “Let me see,” he said, and when Peter gave no objection, he pulled his pants open and began to ease them down.

Peter watched Mr. Beck’s face closely as his bruises were revealed to him, hyperaware of every little change in his expression. It was hard to tell, at first - Mr. Beck seemed to be taking a moment to process what he was seeing - and then he was smiling, a smile so gorgeous Peter felt the air physically leave his lungs, the brightest sunshine smile he had ever seen.

“Oh, baby boy,” he said, trailing his fingertips lightly over the bruises, barely hard enough to even be felt. “Looks like Daddy was too rough on you, last time, hm?”

Peter’s face burned, bright and humiliated. Where had _that_ come from? He wasn’t really sure if Mr. Beck was making a joke, or making fun of him. Was he implying that Peter was being a baby about the bruises…? But...he hadn’t even mentioned how much they hurt.

Mr. Beck smiled down at him and lowered his head to kiss over each bruise with a soft, loving peck. Peter inhaled shakily - the man’s mouth felt incredible so close to his dick, even on his bruises - and laid himself flatter against the couch to give Mr. Beck as much access as he wanted. He was rewarded with two big hands trailing up his sides and underneath his shirt, kneading his waist all the way up to his ribs, which felt so good it didn’t even tickle.

After Mr. Beck had placed a kiss on every one of his hickies, he slowly kissed upwards, over his boxers-clad hips, until he reached his stomach. Peter shuddered as the man kissed the outer rim of his bellybutton, and Mr. Beck grinned against his skin. “I should make it up to you, don’t you think?” he asked in a low voice, peppering kisses all over Peter’s abdomen. “For marking you up so bad.”

Somewhat dazed, Peter shook his head, his hands gently threading through Mr. Beck’s thick hair. All he could really focus on was how hard he was, how if he bucked his hips right now, the outline of his dick through his boxers would catch on the sharp ridge of Mr. Beck’s clavicle, even through his shirt. He wasn’t totally invested in the conversation, but recognized the apologetic tone in Mr. Beck’s voice, and he hated the thought of making the man feel bad.

“It’s okay,” he sighed out, his cock twitching when Mr. Beck kissed right above the hem of his boxers. “Kept thinking about you, every time they stung or throbbed, so it was - it was okay, ‘cause it was like you were with me. Telling me it was gonna be okay, even though it hurt. Thought about you - ” he cut himself off with a loud moan, arched his back, the back of his skull burying into the couch cushion as Mr. Beck kissed along the clothed length of his hard-on, “ - all the time, every time I moved. I liked it, it was like I was...like I’m…”

Mr. Beck kissed the head of his dick through his damp boxers, his warm breath gliding over the material and cooling it as he spoke, “Like you’re what, baby? Say it.”

“ _Yours,_ ” Peter moaned, his hips rocking upwards as Mr. Beck mouthed at him through his boxers, tongue and lips caressing his dick and bringing him dangerously close to the edge. Mr. Beck gently pulled away, replaced his mouth with his hand as he gingerly stroked Peter’s dick, almost idly, like he was _playing_ with it. “And did you like that, baby?” he asked, somehow sounding so composed, when Peter was falling apart beneath him. “You like the thought of being mine? Covered in my mark and feeling my touch on you constantly, all day every day? You like the thought of knowing you’re never going to be without me?”

Peter was shocked to realize trails of wetness were running down his temples into his hairline, and even more shocked to realize they were tears. “Yes,” he said, and for some reason, it came out as a sob. “Yes, wanna be yours, Mr. Beck, wanna know you’re with me, all the time. I don’t - ” he hiccupped, he was crying too hard, _why was he crying?_ “ - don’t want you to leave me, please, please.”

“Shh, whoa, Peter, shh, shh.” He was suddenly lifted from the couch, cradled in the larger man’s arms, like a child sitting in their parent’s lap. Peter tucked his face into the man’s neck to hide his shame, but it felt so good to be held and comforted and soothed. “Easy, kiddo, you’re all right. It’s okay, that was just a little too much, huh? You’re okay. Deep breaths, baby. In and out, yeah, that’s right. Breathe just like me. There you go.”

Peter sniffled and curled up tighter in the man’s chest. What the hell was _wrong_ with him? Was he losing it? Who the hell broke down crying in the middle of sex like that? “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, hating how wet and whiny his voice sounded. “I don’t know - what - what’s wrong.”

“Think that’s a bit of a trigger for you, Pete,” Mr. Beck said sympathetically, resting his cheek on top of his head, hugging him to his chest like a doll. “I should have realized, considering what you’ve gone through. That one hit just a little too close to home. It’s all right. You’re all right.”

His next breath was shaky and watery as he inhaled. He felt so stupid, crying in front of Mr. Beck like this, _again._ He couldn’t figure out why he was so emotional. It was just, the thought of... of Mr. Beck _not_ being here with him, leaving him all alone, made him feel like he would collapse into sobs so strong they shook his whole body apart. He pressed a wet cheek against Mr. Beck’s chest and said, “Please don’t leave me alone. Please. I wanna be yours, so don’t - please don’t leave me here by myself. Please, Mr. Beck.”

He tried to swallow the sobs that trailed after his plead, trying to keep quiet so he could hear Mr. Beck’s reply, his promise to stay with him, to never leave him. But the man didn’t speak, and the longer he went without saying anything, the deeper the pit inside of Peter became. Frantically, he pulled back from the man’s chest, stared up at his face through crying eyes, dread baring down on him when he saw the conflicted look on the man’s face.

“M-Mr. Beck?”

Mr. Beck sighed, suddenly looking hopelessly, unbearably sad. He gently took Peter by the back of the head, his thumbs running along his jawline, his fingers soothingly massaging the back of his neck.

“Pete,” he said gently, in a tone Peter instantly hated. “Look, sweetheart, I wasn’t going to tell you this yet - I wanted to wait until I knew for sure, but - I haven’t been totally honest with you.”

Peter swallowed, the sound booming like a gunshot in his ears. “Wh-what?”

“Last weekend, when I had to leave town? That wasn’t for an appointment.” He kept gently rubbing the sides of Peter’s head, cradling his skull, his touch so loving it stung. “I went to California. For a job interview.”

Peter’s stomach dropped to the floor. He couldn’t speak, almost couldn’t hear a sound over the rush of blood in his ears. He just kept staring up at Mr. Beck, every inch of his soul completely _begging._

“It’s my dream job, Pete. Designing holotech at a government facility in Santa Barbara. Tech that’ll help a lot of people and do some incredible things. The interview went really well. If I get the job, then...I’ll be moving there, in a few weeks. After finals.”

He tried to lower his head, but Mr. Beck’s hands kept his head up and wouldn’t allow him to hide the heartbroken tears streaming down his cheeks. He felt so stupid. Just a dumb child who should have known better. Of course Mr. Beck would get the job - he was brilliant and talented and charismatic and funny, everybody liked him. He’d get the job, and then he’d leave. And Peter would be more alone than he had ever been.

“I’m - really happy for you, Mr. Beck,” Peter tried to say through his sobs, hoping it sounded at least a little sincere. He wanted Mr. Beck to have everything he wanted, really, he did. He just also couldn’t help but feel like the world was crumbling all around him.

“Well, I hope you’re happy for _both_ of us, Pete,” Mr. Beck softly said, giving him a little smile as he thumbed away the heavy trails of his tears. “Because like I said, I wasn’t going to tell you just yet - partially because it’s not a sure thing, and partially because I needed to work up the nerve - but I was hoping, when they offer me the job and I have to move across the country, you’ll come with me.”


	14. New York Sunrise

He blinked up at Mr. Beck under the thick curtain of his tears. He hadn’t really been asked a question, but he didn’t know what to say, regardless. Mr. Beck was planning to leave and wanted Peter to go with him. It sounded simple, but felt like an unsolvable riddle, so all Peter could think to say was, “What?”

“You don’t have to stay here, Pete,” Mr. Beck said gently. “With _him._ You don’t have to put up with it. I can help you. Come to California with me. You’ll be sixteen in August - if we can lay low until then, I can help you register as an emancipated minor. And then your dad won’t have any sort of power over you anymore.”

Peter’s head swam. Mr. Beck let him lower his face when he tried, pulled him into his chest and hugged him tight. Peter tucked his head under the bigger man’s chin and let himself just be held, for a moment. His brain felt like it was rearranging itself inside his skull. “Mr. Beck, I…”

“I know it’s a lot.” His whispered tone was so sympathetic. His hand petted the back of Peter’s head, soothing him. “It’s a huge change, Peter, I get it. You don’t have to decide right this minute, okay? Whatever you want to do is fine.” Peter curled into Mr. Beck’s inviting body warmth, sinking into his embrace as he was hugged protectively. “But I want you to think about it. You and me, a little house all our own, right by the beach. Something with a backyard, we could get a dog, cook dinner together every night when I get home. You can re-enroll in school after you’re emancipated, I’ll help you keep up your studies until then. It’ll be just you and me, together, can you picture it?”

He could picture it. He hadn’t _stopped_ picturing it since the day they met. It was all he wanted. All he thought he wanted, but…

But.

“But what about my dad?”

He spoke so quietly he didn’t think Mr. Beck had heard him. But the man leaned him back in his lap, tilting his face up so their eyes could meet. Peter was still mortified about crying in front of him like this, but he felt okay, under the warm light of Mr. Beck’s gaze. Accepted. Forgiven.

“It’ll probably be hard for him to get used to it, Peter, but once you’re no longer under his care, and he can’t do anything about it? He’ll come around.” He thumbed across Peter’s cheeks softly, gazing into his eyes as he spoke. “The great thing about being an emancipated minor is that it’ll help you have a better relationship with him, because it’ll be on _your_ terms. If he wants to see you, it’ll have to be when _you_ say so. And you’d be amazed at what a little distance can do for parents who are...overbearing, and controlling.”

Peter took a shaky breath and tried to focus on the man’s soothing hands on his face, the comforting warmth of his body below him. Mr. Beck spoke softly, like he was trying to lull him to sleep. “I can’t promise it’ll fix everything, but I’ve definitely seen it make things better. It could be the change he needs to realize how poorly he’s been treating you.” A smile spread across the man’s face, easing the tight ache in Peter’s chest. “Once things settle down, you guys can still visit each other. We can fly him down for Christmas. Make him sleep at the Beverly Hills house if he gets on our nerves too much.”

Peter smiled, even though his eyes were still damp. His cheeks, at least, had begun to dry. “How did you know we have a house in Beverly Hills?”

“Stereotyping,” Mr. Beck admitted, grinning. He kissed Peter’s forehead and gently massaged his temples, soothing the budding headache Peter had started to get from crying so much, like he knew, somehow. “Figured someone like your dad would have a four-story mansion right across the street from Bill Gates.”

“It’s actually across the street from Jeff Bezos,” Peter joked, his voice coming out a little muffled from Mr. Beck’s large hands cupping the sides of his face.

“Oh, I stand corrected.” The man’s smile widened, and Peter’s heart brimmed. _I love you,_ he thought, wanting to be looked at like that forever. But that thought made his stomach sink. Mr. Beck continued soothing him as Peter sniffled and asked, “If I...if you got the job, and I...stayed, would...would I ever see you again?”

There was a sigh above him. Peter’s gaze flicked up to see Mr. Beck’s downturned, worried face, the slope of his eyebrows, the heartbreaking sight of his frown. Mr. Beck caught him staring and tried to give him a reassuring smile, but it fell short, and they both knew it. “You know your dad better than I do, Pete,” he said gently. “Do you think he would let you come visit me? Over the summer, maybe?”

The tears flooded back. Peter hung his head, shaking it dejectedly. His dad didn’t even like letting him go to _school_ by himself. He would have a heart attack if Peter asked to take a plane across the country to visit a man his dad had never met, all on his own. And what would Peter even say, when his dad asked why? He would definitely find it weird that Peter would want to travel all that way just to visit a former teacher. He’d never agree to it.

But the only other option seemed...beyond cruel. He wouldn’t be able to...to tell his dad where he was going, or who with. He wouldn’t be able to reach out to him, until he was fully emancipated, because his dad was a genius and could track any method of communication Peter used. He would have to just...disappear. And then it would be radio silence, until the legal stuff was taken care of, and his dad could no longer forcefully remove him from Mr. Beck’s home.

It was the worst thing Peter could ever do to him.

But he didn’t know what other choice he had.

“I know it feels like we’re moving too fast,” Mr. Beck said, after a long moment of silence between them. “I mean it, Peter, if you don’t want to do this, that’s okay. We’ll go at your speed, okay?” He leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together. Peter’s eyes slipped closed at the contact, soaking it up, like the touch was nourishing him. “I want you to come with me. I want to be with you, just like this. I _hate_ the thought of leaving you in the situation you’re in all by yourself. But if that’s the choice you make, that’s okay. I’m on your side no matter what.”

_Don’t,_ Peter begged himself, but it was too late; a sob ripped from his throat, bringing a new flood of tears. Fear and isolation and the shame of how much they were affecting him made the tears fall faster. He _hated_ this, hated that there was nothing he could do. He could never ask Mr. Beck to stay just for him, but he didn’t know how he could survive here without him. He had never been so aware of his loneliness, had no idea how sharp it was until Mr. Beck came along.

He couldn’t stand the thought of just...wading through the next two years of his life, surviving off of secret texts and phone calls whenever their time zones would allow them. Of going back to being completely invisible at school, except for his bullies, without Mr. Beck there to protect him. But mostly he couldn’t stand the thought of losing _this._ Human touch. He didn’t know how he was supposed to go back to his old life, wandering around his empty penthouse longing for someone to talk to, knowing what he was missing, because he didn’t go with Mr. Beck.

He cried into the man’s chest, his body cradled. He couldn’t do it. He’d rather...do anything else.

Anything but _that._

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Mr. Beck was saying to him, hugging him so tight, it was hard to keep sobbing. But the pressure felt good, wrapped around his chest and back, making him feel secure, in more ways than one. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to make a choice like this. It’s not fair to you. I wish this wasn’t the hand you’ve been dealt, but it is. You gotta make the best with the cards you’ve got.” He kissed the top of Peter’s head, lips lingering against his curls. “And you’ve got me. Okay? Always. Daddy’s here, baby.”

Peter cringed, his face burning, cheeks sore and puffy from the tears and the sudden blush covering his whole face. Mr. Beck must have noticed, because he chuckled as he sat Peter up straight, once again wiping the tears from his wet cheeks. “What’s with the blush, Pete? Don’t like it when I call you ‘baby’?”

He felt a little dizzy from how much blood rushed to his head. He shook his head, unspeakably embarrassed. “No, it’s the, uh, the _other one_ that’s a little…”

Mr. Beck’s face softened with understanding. He chuckled again, maybe looking a little sheepish. “Ah, I see,” he said, running his hands through Peter’s curls. “Sorry, I should’ve seen that coming. I keep forgetting how new this all is for you. You’re so mature, it’s hard to remember sometimes that you don’t have much experience with things like this.”

_Or any,_ Peter thought, though he didn’t say it out loud. Instead, he peered up at Mr. Beck and shyly asked, “So it’s - um, it’s...normal? For couples to call each other…”

“Yes.” The patient smile on the man’s face soothed some of Peter’s searing humiliation. He was good at that. It was one of the many things that made him such a great teacher. “Especially for gay couples. It doesn’t have anything to do with repurposing family roles, it just means I like taking care of you.” He kissed him softly, and Peter melted. It was the softest kiss he’d ever been given, and he was amazed by how good it felt. He whimpered against the man’s lips as they delicately pressed against his own. “Which I do. You are so easy to love, Peter.”

“I think you’re the only person in the world who thinks that,” he said.

Mr. Beck smiled, kissed him again, held him in his arms like he couldn’t bear to let him go. “That’s all right,” he assured, and in that moment, Peter believed that it was. “It just means I get to love you enough to make up for all the rest.”

This time, Peter suppressed the sob longing to leave his mouth by pressing his lips against Mr. Beck’s, letting him swallow his cries and all the grief behind them, forgetting the sharp ache in his chest as he was lowered to the couch and devoured.

—

Despite how tired he was when Mr. Beck dropped him off, Peter couldn’t bring himself to fall asleep. He lay in bed until the sky started to brighten, and then he dragged himself out to the living room, to watch the sunrise through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He was surprised to find his dad hunched over on the couch, nursing a steaming cup of coffee. He must have woken up while Peter was tossing and turning in his bed - he definitely wasn’t there when he came home a few hours ago. Thank God for that.

His dad looked up at him as he quietly entered the room. There were dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept much, and Peter felt a stab of anxiety, even though he knew he hadn’t been caught - if his dad heard him use the elevator, Peter never would have made it out of the building. He wondered if maybe his dad had too much to drink before bed last night and hadn’t slept well. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“What’re you doing up so early, kiddo?” his dad asked, taking a sip of his coffee as he sat up straight. Peter shrugged and took a seat at the other end of the couch, turning to gaze through the windows. “Just couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled. “Wanted to watch the sun rise.”

“Architects said I was nuts for facing my living room east,” his dad said, an impish smile on his face, “But I told ‘em, nope, had to have that view. Nothing beats a New York sunrise.”

Peter watched the orange light of the sun beginning to creep above the ocean. “What about a California sunset?”

His dad snorted, like Peter had dissed his favorite brand of scotch. “Terrific, if you can stand the bugs.” He leaned back, crossed his legs on the coffee table, like he was getting ready to fall back asleep. “Nah. Other places have their charms, but this place’ll always be home.”

Peter thought of Santa Barbara, a little Spanish house across from the beach, cooking dinner with Mr. Beck while their dog played in the backyard. His chest ached, and he distracted himself from the sudden urge to cry by asking, “Why are _you_ up so early?”

“Gettin’ old.” He took another sip of his coffee, grimacing like it hurt to swallow. “It’s all right. Gives me plenty of time to think. You wanna get out of the house today? We could see a movie, maybe hit up Legoland. You could use some new jeans, too. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that that growth spurt’s finally kicking in there, bud.”

Peter didn’t know why, of all things, that was the thing that made him want to cry the hardest. His eyes were wet before he could stop them. _He_ hadn’t even noticed his growth spurt, but sure enough, when he looked down at his legs, there was a sliver of ankle showing, when these used to be his baggiest sweatpants. His dad had noticed, somehow. Even though he was never around.

He wanted to go. He wanted to watch a dumb, B-rated sci-fi movie with his dad and go shopping, stop and have lunch, come back and spend the day in the workshop. He wanted that, felt his chest ache from how badly he wanted it.

But the only thought running through his head was, _Don’t fall for it, Peter._ That knowing voice, a gentle guide. _It’s all part of the cycle._

He stood before the beaming sunlight hit his face so his dad wouldn’t see his tears. He turned back for his bedroom, tried to look sleepy as he said, “Maybe - maybe some other time, Dad. I didn’t sleep well. S-sore - sore legs kept me up, from the growth spurt. I think I just wanna lay around the house today.”

“Okay, kiddo,” his dad called as he left the room. He pretended not to hear the disappointment, fought not to feel the guilt. “If you change your mind, I’ll be here.”


	15. California Sunset

On Monday, Mr. Beck took him aside after class and told him he got the job.

Peter didn’t know what to say. Mr. Beck was clearly so happy, so _excited,_ and he didn’t want to ruin that. He leaned forwards and wrapped his arms around the taller man’s waist in a tight hug as he told him, “Congratulations, Mr. Beck.”

“Thank you, baby,” Mr. Beck said, stealing a quick glance to the door to make sure they were alone, before tipping Peter’s face up and kissing him. Peter melted into the kiss, his eyes slipping shut at the pleasurable scrape of Mr. Beck’s beard against his face. “Now I just need to get you as excited as I am.”

“I’m - I’m excited,” Peter lied, his face reddening because he knew Mr. Beck could tell. “It’d be nice to get to see you all the time, not just on Friday nights.” At least _that_ part wasn’t a lie.

“Mm. Yeah, it will be. I’ve hardly thought of anything else since the first time I saw you.” He pressed their foreheads together, his hand tight and firm at the back of Peter’s neck. “Just you and me, alone. Having you all to myself.”

Peter shivered. He could see it when he closed his eyes. Their home. Their life, together. He wanted it - his skin tingled at the excitement, the thrill of having such a dream actually come true. The idea of _waking up_ next to Mr. Beck, in his arms - of not having to say goodbye way too soon - that _did_ excite Peter. He felt jittery from just the thought.

But there was also a rock, sitting heavy in his stomach, cold and hollow at the same time. It made every step Peter took that much slower, like the weight of it was a physical thing that was holding him down. He practically dragged his feet for the rest of the day, torn between the bitter ache at the thought of _leaving,_ and the warm, comforting balm at the thought of being _gone._

Mr. Beck didn’t seem to mind, just held Peter tighter and promised him, “We’ll figure it out,” giving a quick kiss to his temple that Peter felt right in the warm, tender center of his chest.

—

The last week of school went by faster than Peter could comprehend.

He handed in his final projects and spent the rest of his time studying for the last of his exams. It was hard to focus, regardless of whether he was at school or at home, which was both embarrassing and worrisome. He didn’t want his dad or one of the other teachers at school to notice anything was different. But as one week slowly crept into two, and regular classes ended with only their final exams left to be completed, Peter found himself spacing out more and more.

He and Mr. Beck hadn’t really... _talked_ about whether or not he would go with him, but Mr. Beck was acting like they had. He kept saying things like, _when we get to California,_ and, _you’re going to love the new house,_ and, _I can’t wait to have you all to myself._

Robotics Lab had been one of the first of Peter’s classes to end, since it only had a final project and no final exam, and Mr. Beck had helped him finish his project ages ago. Since Peter had a couple of weeks of exams left before school was out, Mr. Beck had flown to California the weekend before to start unpacking his new house and get ready to start his new job. Everybody thought Mr. Beck had already moved away, and it honestly felt like he had, except for the daily texts he kept sending Peter: an excited countdown that Peter didn’t know how to turn off.

Even if he did, he honestly didn’t know if he wanted to. Part of him was scared shitless, convinced that there was no way in hell he could actually go through with this, like Mr. Beck had asked him to swim across the Great Lakes or something. But then he would picture life _without_ Mr. Beck, trapped in this penthouse with his dad, who kept flipping back and forth between absent and overbearing, smothering Peter half the time, nowhere to be found the rest.

And that was worse. It felt like a prison sentence. Peter didn’t want to hurt or scare his dad by leaving. But he didn’t know how he was supposed to handle losing the only person who seemed to _really_ care about him.

So he didn’t say anything, when Mr. Beck texted him, _“Only five more days, sweetheart,”_ like he had every morning since he left. He didn’t tell Mr. Beck how scared he was, how guilty he felt about running away from home. Part of it was because he didn’t want the man to think he had doubts. And part of it...part of it was because he didn’t want Mr. Beck to think he was weak, that he was some kind of easily-manipulated victim who was incapable of breaking away from their abuser. Mr. Beck had been pretty clear about how he saw his and his dad’s relationship. Peter was scared that, at this point, anything he said could be used to show Mr. Beck he was right.

(And, really, he was scared that it would be the truth. So he chose not to say anything at all.)

He was trying - and failing - to focus on studying for his organic chemistry final when his phone buzzed to life again. Peter sighed in frustration and pushed his textbook away, then grabbed his phone and anxiously swiped it open to check his messages. The flutter of happiness at the sight of Mr. Beck’s name was swiftly and utterly swallowed up by a sea of dread as his eyes skimmed the text.

_“Your last exam is on Friday afternoon, right? I’ll be in town in the morning to pick up the last of my stuff, then I can swing by and pick you up.”_ Like it was no big deal, like they were going to spend the afternoon at Coney Island instead of driving across the country. _“We’ll have to meet somewhere a little more low-key. I was thinking about picking you up outside The Pegasus Bar between 29th and 6th. It won’t be open until 6 and it’s decently hidden from the foot traffic. I can pull right in front where no one will see.”_

Peter’s hands shook as he held his phone. He wanted to be with Mr. Beck. He _loved_ Mr. Beck. But this was getting more and more real every second, and if Peter’s nerves got any more frayed, he was definitely going to puke.

_“So let’s say 4 o’clock, outside the bar. Remember to bring your phone - we’ll have to dismantle it so your dad doesn’t track you with it. We can get you a new one when we get to California. Only five more days to go, sweetheart.”_

He stared down at the screen, trying to find something to say, and when he couldn’t he shakily got to his feet and propelled himself forward out of his room. His legs felt like jelly. His phone sat like a brick in his pocket, too heavy to ignore.

Stumbling into the living room, Peter’s eyes were immediately drawn across the room, to the liquor cabinet behind the bar. His dad would kill him, but he wasn’t home.

He just needed something, just to settle the nerves. Just so he could relax and focus on studying. He felt the tight coil of anxiety in his stomach expand until his lungs felt too small to contain oxygen, somehow scared his dad would find out, even though he had missed way bigger things going on in Peter’s life recently.

Something dark, foreign and angry in the pit of his stomach hissed that if there was one thing his dad was bound to notice, it was that Peter had messed with his alcohol stash. But Peter swiftly snuffed that thought out before it could be anything more than a hot, intrusive stab, and slid the doors of the liquor cabinet open.

It took him a moment to realize what he was really looking at. The cabinet wasn’t totally empty, but the few bottles remaining looked unfamiliar - not that Peter was exactly an expert when it came to booze, he never really had much of an interest in drinking, to be honest - but something about the inside of the cabinet looked incredibly bizarre, and it took a moment for Peter to realize why.

None of the bottles left in the cabinet were alcohol. There was tonic water, and a few bottles of mix, juice and soda left over in the refrigerated section, but that was it. No scotch, no vodka, not even a bottle of beer.

Peter was more confused than disappointed. It was just his luck that he’d be struck with an anxiety attack bad enough to make him consider drinking on the _one_ day his dad didn’t have any booze in the house. Peter almost found it hard to believe, but then…maybe this was a good thing. A sign. Maybe his dad genuinely _was_ busy, and Peter wasn’t the cause for the yawning chasm of distance that had come between them. Maybe Mr. Beck was wrong. If his dad was too busy to even stock the liquor cabinet, of course he was too busy to spend time at home.

_The one in his lab is probably completely full,_ the knot in his stomach whispered, unwelcomed and venomous. Peter glared at the near-empty cabinet through wet eyes and slammed the door shut, wrenching himself off the floor and back to his bedroom. He curled up on his bed and held himself as tightly as he could, feeling like the anxiety was about to shake him apart at his very core, until all his molecules separated in infinite directions, spanning the universe like he never existed at all.

—

Friday came faster than Peter was ready for. It was partially his fault, he knew, for letting the last five days pass by him in a daze. He never garnered the courage to tell Mr. Beck how he was feeling, and failing to do so meant the decision was made for him, out of his hands. It was his own fault, now. If he wasn’t ready, then… well, those were just the consequences he’d have to deal with, weren’t they?

He left the last exam of his sophomore year feeling as though he’d just run a marathon, only to stop at the base of a towering mountain. He wasn’t heading home. It didn’t occur to him, before now, that the last time he’d gone home would be the last time he ever would. If he met Mr. Beck at their rendezvous, and climbed into his car, he didn’t know when he’d ever set foot in his home again. He didn’t know how long it would take to get himself registered as an emancipated minor, or how long he’d have to wait to see his dad again, or even speak to him.

Peter didn’t realize he had frozen on the sidewalk outside of his school until someone bumped into him. He stumbled, barely managing to keep himself upright, only to look up and see Flash’s smug, grinning face, leering at him as he walked backwards towards the parking lot. “Have a nice summer, Penis,” he said, his eyes lit up like it was Christmas. “Enjoy it while you can, ‘cause come September? You won’t have your _boyfriend_ around to protect you, and we’ll have _lots_ of time to make up for.”

Flash winked at him, and then left him reeling on the sidewalk, his heart threatening to hammer out of his chest. Flash...was just making fun of him, right? He couldn’t _know?_ How could he possibly know? Mr. Beck was so - they were _both_ so careful, especially at school, there was no way he could possibly find out -

He forced a shuddering breath into his lungs, feeling cold with dread. Flash was already looking forward to it, to next year, when Mr. Beck was gone and Peter went back to being invisible to everyone except him. That was what was in store for him, if he stayed. A constant cycle of harassment and isolation while the man he loved lived three-thousand miles away. Peter swallowed the anxious lump in his throat, and felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket.

His stomach dropped when he saw who the message was from.

_“Hey kiddo. Call me when you’re finished your exam. I’ll pick you up, we’ll go out and celebrate. If you’re still in class you’d better not be reading this. Love you.”_

Peter wanted to type back, _I love you too,_ unsure of when he’d get the chance to say it again. But before he could start, his phone buzzed again, another message flashing across the top of his screen. The sight of Mr. Beck’s name brandished at the top made his heart beat warm through the frozen wasteland that his stomach had become.

_“Hey baby. I’m a little early, but I’m outside The Pegasus. Can’t wait to see you. I’ll try not to nag you too much on your way here, but it’ll be pretty hard. I can’t remember the last time I was this excited.”_

Peter smiled, in spite of himself and his guilt, and the anxiety waging a war inside of him, and all the bad things that felt like they’d been piling on top of him for months. Mr. Beck was real. He was real and he was beautiful and he loved Peter, maybe, or least liked him enough to want to be with him, to want to make things work despite all the ways that Peter was hard to be with. He cared enough to try, and that was what mattered, really, at the end of it all.

He texted back, _“On my way. See you soon,”_ with a flurry of dumb, goopy heart emojis, and set off towards to the station.

—

The entrance to The Pegasus Bar wasn’t on 29th, as Peter’s GPS claimed, but faced an alleyway that cut across to 6th after a 90-degree turn. The entrance didn’t exactly look welcoming; poorly-lit, framed by mounds of trash and inlaid in the concrete at the bottom of a set of rickety, wooden steps. It looked like the sort of thing that had been there for centuries, and Mr. Beck’s shiny black buick parked in front of it stood out like a sore thumb.

Mr. Beck reached over and pushed the passenger door open when Peter walked up, grinning at him with an expression that made Peter think of puppy dogs. Fluffy ones, like great big happy golden retrievers. “Hi, baby. Get in here so I can kiss the daylights out of you.”

Peter smiled and slipped into the seat, dropping his backpack on the floor in front of him. He didn’t even get the chance to say hello before Mr. Beck was cupping him by the nape of his neck, pulling him in and devouring his mouth in a searing kiss, just like he promised. Peter whined when Mr. Beck’s teeth grazed his lower lip, the slightest pinch, and pulled away completely out of breath. “I - uhm. Wow. Hi.”

Laughing, Mr. Beck pulled him in again and kissed his forehead, his cheek, a peck on his lips. “Hi,” he said, quiet and fond, so tender Peter wanted to melt like butter. “I’m so happy you came. I’m so happy you’re coming with me. I almost lost my nerve, you know. I don’t know how I could ever stand being that far away from you.”

Peter reached up where Mr. Beck was still holding him by the face and gently held his wrists, leaning in to nuzzle their foreheads together. “Me, too. I really missed you.”

“You won’t be missin’ me from now on.” Mr. Beck grinned, pulling back and kissing him once more, before returning upright in his seat. “What do you say we hit the road?”

His stomach did a sudden, violent flip, but Peter refused to dwell on it. Instead, he nodded and said, “Okay,” which came out as a quiet mumble, even though he didn’t mean for it to.

Mr. Beck’s soft smile was reassuring, though, even as he held his hand out and said. “Then I just need your phone, sweetheart, and we can leave.”

The device never felt as heavy or as cumbersome as it did then, when Peter fished it from his pocket and handed it over. For some reason, the only thought running through his head was, _I never texted my dad back,_ even though this was supposed to be his grand escape to freedom.

_That’s the cycle,_ the intrusive part of his brain chirped, and Peter shook it away, watching as Mr. Beck pulled a clunky, handheld device out of the backseat and set it on his lap. “What’s that?”

Mr. Beck hooked Peter’s phone into the device through its charging port and spoke offhandedly, as if concentrating completely at the task at hand. “It’ll erase your phone’s data, permanently, even anything that might’ve been saved on a network. It also neutralizes anything trying to access your location.” He paused and smiled at Peter reassuringly, like he could see the worry Peter felt broadcasted on his face. “We can’t be too careful, Pete - not with _your_ dad. You never know, he might’ve rigged this thing to keep special tabs on you, and if he’s able to trace this back to me, we won’t get very far.”

Suddenly, all he had the strength to do was nod, watching as Mr. Beck placed the device and his phone in the backseat. A well of sadness yawned open behind his ribcage, but Peter couldn’t understand why. “How long will it take?”

“It’ll probably be done by the time we reach the city limits. Then we’ll just dispose of your phone on the highway, and we’re home free.” He spared a sideways glance at Peter, that reassuring smile still stretched across his face. Peter leaned in when Mr. Beck wrapped his arm tenderly around his shoulders, holding him safe and secure. “Hardest part’s over, Pete. Now it’s just you and me and our future together.”

Despite everything, Peter smiled. He liked the sound of that. “Yeah,” he said, soaking up the hug for as long as he could, pretending he didn’t feel the gravity of the earth trying to pull him right through his seat. “Yeah, okay, let’s do it. Let’s go.”

Mr. Beck kissed the top of his head, unwrapped his arm from around him, and steered the car out of the alleyway and back onto 29th, just as the sun gleamed neon orange off every Manhattan window.

And they drove off into the sunset, heading west for California.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kinda feels like the end, but I promise it's not, lol. Although you could argue that certain things are coming to an end for Peter...and something else is just beginning. Dun dun dunnnnnnn
> 
> (Also, if any of you happen to be members of the dumb clown movie fandom, I recently wrote a reddie oneshot which you can read [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22021402?view_adult=true) Check it out if that's your jam!)
> 
> And thanks for being patient with me. I'm climbing down off my bullshit one inch at a time.


	16. Honeymoon phase (part 1)

Peter’s anxiety sat fat and heavy in the pit of his stomach for hours as they crawled their way out of New York.

About an hour inside of Pennsylvania, they turned onto an empty stretch of highway and pulled over under the fading blue-grey light of summer. Peter watched as Mr. Beck took his cellphone from the backseat and carried it a couple dozen yards ahead of them, then reared back and smashed it onto the ground in the middle of the empty road.

He couldn’t help but flinch. Mr. Beck - he knew he was strong, but that - that was insane. The phone didn’t even bounce, like plastic usually did, just shattered on impact like glass, spilling over the asphalt in a wave of a thousand pieces. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Mr. Beck was mad - but when he turned and looked back at Peter, he was smiling, that same usual, wide, golden retriever smile that made his stomach flutter, so Peter took a deep breath and smiled back.

His dad had given him that phone. Customized it, just for him. They’d sat together and looked at all of its features side by side, his dad showing him all the cool things he’d rigged it to do. It was a good night. He could remember feeling excited at the idea of showing off how awesome his new phone was, of displaying his dad’s handiwork, but...high school started, and it wasn’t all that Peter hoped it would be, and the chance never came.

And now it was gone. Peter swallowed the lump of guilt in his throat and added it to the list of things he’d need to apologize to his dad for, the next time they spoke, and somehow felt a little calmer. The anxiety lifted, knowing it was gone and there really was no going back. Now his dad couldn’t find him, and everything could go according to plan, just like Mr. Beck said. They would make it to California, and the rest of their lives after that.

Mr. Beck looked as happy as Peter had ever seen him as he got back in the car. Peter returned his bright, beaming smile, and Mr. Beck cupped him by the back of his neck and pulled him in for a deep, filthy kiss.

“All mine now, sweetheart,” he murmured against Peter’s lips, kissing him again and snuffing out the humiliating whimper he made before it could even be heard.

“Yours,” Peter agreed, and burned red under the grin Mr. Beck gave him as a reward. Mr. Beck threw the car back into drive, then clasped his hand tight around Peter’s left thigh and squeezed, almost possessively, as he floored the gas and deliberately ran over the shattered remains of Peter’s phone, scattering it into dust in the wind behind them.

—

They didn’t drive to California in a straight line. Mr. Beck made a good point about needing to avoid main roads and CCTV cams, not to mention toll booths and border patrol, who would most likely be stirred up and looking for him everywhere, if his dad had anything to say about it, which he probably would.

So they took it slow and steady for the first couple days. They went down into Virginia and spent the night camped out in the car with the backseat folded down, swaddled in sleeping bags, even though Mr. Beck was like a furnace and they didn’t really need them. Peter was exhausted when they finally curled up for bed, passing out right away, but he woke up a few hours later in the pitch-black night, rutting against Mr. Beck’s thigh in his sleep, his dick straining the open flap of his boxers.

It was too dark to see if Mr. Beck was awake or not, so Peter bit his lip and wiggled back, slightly, so he wasn’t being weird or creepy by touching Mr. Beck without his consent. He curled up and tried to will his erection away, but Mr. Beck rolled over a couple minutes later, his arm falling over Peter’s waist and pulling him into his chest, Peter’s head tucked under Mr. Beck’s chin, his eager dick pressing hard and heavy into the man’s muscled thigh.

Fuck. Peter screwed his eyes shut, biting back the moan that was bubbling at the back of his throat. He tried to wriggle out of Mr. Beck’s firm embrace, but the movement seemed to rouse the man from sleep - Peter gasped, loud and sudden, as a large hand abruptly plunged down the back of his boxers and cupped his bare ass.

“Hell of a way to wake up, kiddo,” Mr. Beck whispered into his hair. Peter flushed at how clear the man’s voice sounded, fearing how long he’d been awake and witnessing Peter humiliate himself. “I thought you were too tired to fool around since you fell asleep so fast. Glad to see I was wrong.”

He pressed a soft kiss to Peter’s forehead, the sweetness of it contradicting the desperate thrill Peter felt when the hand in his boxers squeezed, pulling him even tighter against Mr. Beck’s chest. “I’m - I’m sorry,” he stuttered, grabbing the front of Mr. Beck’s t-shirt and burying his face in it, both to hide and to envelope himself in that amazing scent. “I did it in my sleep, I didn’t mean to, I just woke up and - ”

“Shh. You’re perfect, sweetheart. Waking me up in the middle of the night because you need Daddy to touch you and make you feel good? How could I be mad?”

His skin felt sunburnt from how hot he flushed. It kind of felt like Mr. Beck was making fun of him, a little, but Peter reminded himself that those were just the sorts of things he liked to say during sex, just normal dirty talk that he wasn’t used to yet. Mr. Beck said that it wasn’t unusual for gay couples, so…eventually it would stop feeling weird, right?

He bucked involuntarily as the tips of Mr. Beck’s fingers dipped between his cheeks, trailing down the seam of his ass as they splayed to get a better handful of his cheek. His hand was so _big,_ it drove Peter crazy thinking about how badly he wanted it to slide to the front of his boxers and wrap around his dick, instead. “M-Mr. Beck.”

“What is it, baby? Does that feel good?”

Peter’s tongue felt like a wet sponge in his mouth, massive and heavy. His head was spinning. All he could do was nod, desperately, hoping Mr. Beck would get it without him having to ask for it out loud. “Y-yeah, feels good.”

Mr. Beck kissed his forehead again, his lips gentle, the scrape of his beard less so. “But it’s not enough, is it? You need more, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Peter clung to the man’s shirt and nodded gratefully, thrumming like all of his nerve endings were being lit up at once. He moaned when Mr. Beck started guiding the motion of his hips, encouraging him to rut against his hard thigh with the hand still gripping his ass. He could feel the stiff line of Mr. Beck’s cock digging into his abs. His boxers were sticking to his skin already, especially where the tip of his dick was leaking precum into the waistband. “Please.”

“Hmmm,” Mr. Beck hummed, like he was deep in thought. Peter squirmed in his arms and kept rutting greedily against his thigh. Mr. Back’s large hand on his bare ass felt amazing, better than Peter ever thought it would feel. He couldn’t believe what a difference skin-to-skin contact made. “What should I do to you first,” Mr. Beck asked aloud, seemingly talking to himself, “now that I have you all to myself, and can do anything I want?”

A shiver ran down Peter’s back, and he whimpered. Mr. Beck sounded like he was talking about something else, like Peter was missing something, the context of a joke he’d never heard before. But, then again, maybe he was overthinking it - Peter sort of felt like that all the time, like he was missing some vital piece of information everyone else had managed to figure out, and besides - it was kind of hard to think clearly with his boyfriend’s hand in his boxers and his dick jutting into his stomach.

He didn’t know how he was supposed to respond, so he decided to just keep begging, since Mr. Beck seemed to like that. “Anything,” he said, hating the whiny timber of his voice. “Please, anything, just - _something._ Please, Mr. Beck. Please touch me.”

A pleased chuckle ghosted over his forehead, and Mr. Beck pulled him even closer, his tone fond. “Such a good boy,” he murmured, placing gentle kisses into his hair. “How about my mouth, hm baby? You want my mouth on you?”

_ Fuck. _ Peter arched his back, drove his aching dick into Mr. Beck’s thigh. “Yes, yes,” he babbled, remembering how amazing it was that time Mr. Beck blew him, coming undone at just the thought of it happening again. “Oh God, yes, please, Mr. Beck, please.”

“Roll over for me, sweetheart.”

The back of Mr. Beck’s car was cramped and dark, so Peter had to scoot up a bit in order to properly roll onto his back. He couldn’t even see how Mr. Beck arranged himself to lay between his legs; he was so much bigger than him, and Peter already had to curl up to fit back here. He felt bad asking Mr. Beck to practically fold himself in half just to be able to touch him, and couldn’t help but ask, “Is - is this okay? Is it too uncomfortable?”

Mr. Beck kissed the inside of his thigh, hooked his fingers under the waistband of his boxers and started to pull them down. “Worth it to get my mouth on you,” he said in that low voice, the one that made Peter’s temperature spike a few dozen degrees every time.

He lifted his hips and his legs so Mr. Beck could pull his boxers off, then settled back against their mound of sleeping bags, his pulse racing. Mr. Beck’s face was so close to his dick, resting heavy and hard against his pelvis. Peter wanted to buck his hips up, to beg Mr. Beck to please just take him into his mouth already, but he stayed still, waiting. Staring into the dark, feeling his heart beating like a war drum inside his chest.

Finally, after what felt like an insufferable eternity, Mr. Beck kissed the inside of his thigh again. Peter whined, his dick twitching and straining against gravity, aching to be touched. Mr. Beck didn’t, though - he just kept kissing him, everywhere except where Peter was dying for him to.

The scratchiness of his facial hair tickled and burned at the same time, abrasive on his sensitive skin. Peter whimpered as Mr. Beck lightly nipped his thigh. He trembled as Mr. Beck nipped him again, a little less gentle. Gasped when Mr. Beck bit into his next kiss. Jerked and yelped, “O- _ oww,” _ when Mr. Beck sunk his teeth into the one after that.

Mr. Beck chuckled and licked the wound, almost apologetically. “You’re okay,” he said, the deep growl of his voice shuddering through Peter’s whole body. “My good boy.” A hiss of pain ripped its way from his throat as Mr. Beck bit him again, way too close to the last one. “Gonna mark you up, nice and dark. You’ll be sittin’ pretty next to me for days, feeling me between your legs. You won’t even wanna stand up, Pete. Won’t be able to _move_ without thinking about me.”

He latched onto his fresh bite mark and _sucked,_ like he was trying to draw blood from the wound, and Peter yelped and thrashed underneath him, involuntarily. Mr. Beck curled around him, his much-larger body folding over his in the cramped backseat, keeping him pinned down and helpless.

“But it - ” he started to say, crying out when Mr. Beck sucked and bit another mark into him. “Mr. Beck, please, it _hurts._ ”

“Sh, oh, sweetheart, shhh,” the man said, the growl in his voice gone, that familiar, gentle timber rolling over Peter and soothing him like a healing balm. “They’re just lovebites, baby, that’s all. You’re all right.” He kissed the top of his thigh, and released the tight grip on his hip to trail his hand over to his dick. Peter sobbed in relief as that large, firm hand _finally_ wrapped around him and stroked, making his back arch and his hips thrust up, desperate. “Couples give each other hickeys all the time, Pete. Just wanna make sure you know you’re _mine._ ”

Peter moaned and jerked as Mr. Beck squeezed him tight, moving his hand faster up and down his shaft. It felt so good, so crazily, mind-numbingly good - the throbbing ache from the bites on his thighs sort of faded into the background, at least until Mr. Beck began kissing them again.

Whining, Peter fisted his hands above his head, all of his senses suddenly overloaded. The kisses felt _good,_ sweet and gentle and soothing, but the scrape of Mr. Beck’s beard on the fresh bite marks made sharp stabs of pain shoot up his spine, right into his skull, and all of it - all of it was being swallowed by how incredible his hand felt on Peter’s dick, gripping him _just right,_ better than Peter even knew how to touch himself. His dick was leaking so much, Mr. Beck’s hand glided up and down easily, his fist tight and warm and wet. “ _Mr. Beck -_ ”

“You wanna cum, sweetheart?” Mr. Beck asked, and nipped at his thigh again. It felt like so much, Peter almost didn’t even feel anything at all - went right over the edge, dropping from _overwhelming_ into numbness. “You like it when Daddy marks you up, don’t you?”

His hand slowed down, just a fraction, but it made Peter’s body jerk like a stuttering engine. “I - ”

“You like feelin’ me, right here?” Mr. Beck kissed the most sensitive bite on Peter’s thigh, the one that stung so bad his eyes watered when he touched it. “Like knowing you’re not ever gonna be without me? I’ll keep ‘em up too, Pete. Every couple of days, when the bruises start fading, I’ll lay you out just like this. You have no idea how fucking sexy you are like this, thighs all dark and swollen where Daddy’s claimed you.”

“Will it - will it hurt each time?” Peter whimpered, his voice wobbly and weak, distraught from the sudden halt to his impending orgasm and the promise of more pain Mr. Beck had just dropped on him.

The man’s hand picked up a little more speed, tightening and making Peter’s head fall back, his eyes slipping shut. “Not forever, baby, no. I keep forgetting how young you are. It’s always overwhelming the first couple of times.” He kissed his way up Peter’s thigh, over the jut of his hipbone to his belly, right beside his weeping dick. “It’s okay if you’re not ready, Peter. I won’t be mad. We can wait until you’re older, if this is too much.”

“ _No,_ ” Peter said, a little too vehemently, startling a laugh out of Mr. Beck. “No, that’s not - I’m not - I’m ready, I promise. I can handle it. I can.”

“I know you can, sweetheart.” His voice was so gentle, so soothing. Peter hated himself a little that his eyes suddenly felt wet. “You can handle it. You want Daddy to mark you up, don’t you? Show you that you’re mine and make sure you don’t ever forget it?”

“Wanna be yours,” Peter sobbed, pleasure and pain and everything else overwhelming him, fucking up into the man’s hand when he started stroking him faster, faster, faster. “Wanna know I’m yours, Mr. Beck, please, mark me up - _ah,_ haa-mmngh!”

This time, when Mr. Beck sunk his teeth into the tender meat of his inner thigh, Peter clamped his jaw shut, grinding his teeth together to keep the cry of pain inside. The _last_ thing he wanted was for Mr. Beck to think he couldn’t handle this, that this had all been one giant mistake.

He couldn’t handle thinking that, either.

His orgasm hit him like a freight train, turning everything into white noise and sensory overload in the stifling darkness of the backseat of Mr. Beck’s car. He hardly felt the hot ropes of cum striping up the front of his chest, or the harsh throb of Mr. Beck sucking purple bruises into his sensitive skin. Everything was kind of...nothing, for a while. Peter couldn’t even really be sure he was still conscious.

Then Mr. Beck was moving, crawling up the front of his body, groaning with relief as he was finally able to stretch his legs out a little. He kissed Peter’s temple, his cheek, his panting mouth - then cupped his face and kissed him again, deeper, urgent and hungry. Peter tried to keep up, but his head was swimming, it was hard to even stay awake, let alone kiss back properly.

But then he felt the man’s thick cock press into the tender, bruised flesh of his thigh, and his eyes snapped open to meet Mr. Beck’s smouldering gaze in the darkness. Mr. Beck grinned at him, and kissed him again, chaste and sweet, and quietly said, “Think it’s my turn now, sweetheart.”


End file.
